Like moths to a flame, we speed walk toward the flashing bulbs. The orbs flash on and off like startled lightening bugs taking flight. We wait for our turn with nervous excitement. My heart thumps faster with every orbit. The Flying Bobs are obnoxious in dizzying speed, ear-splitting music, and howling tornado sirens. The tiny cars rock recklessly side to side as they zip around in their infinite loop. The sticky June air retreats as the ride becomes a giant fan filled with screaming youth. The artificial wind cools the back of my neck while goosebumps pop up with every pleading scream. The blur halts. The glittery vinyl gleams in our eyes as we scope out the abandoned swinging cars. We scurry up the worn boiler-plate floor and slide into our bob— the metal bar clicks across our laps, sealing the deal. Anticipation builds for only seconds before I scream through the strands of my whipping hair. I laugh until I can't breathe. I fail to break away from its gravitational pull— captive to the maniacal mechanical vortex.