Erosland — [work]

Do try the . It’s salty. It’s twisted. You’ll break off a piece for the person next to you, but they’ll probably be looking at their phone. You eat the whole thing yourself and pretend you meant to.

Then there’s . It’s a dark water ride. You sit alone in a swan boat that’s seen better days (one eye is missing). The tunnel is cold. The walls project old text messages, blurry photos, the scent of a perfume you can no longer remember. It’s a haunted house for the heart. You don’t scream. You just sit quietly, letting the water carry you toward an exit that looks exactly like the entrance.

Welcome to .

So, have you bought your ticket yet? Don't worry about the price. You’ve already paid it a thousand times over in daydreams and late-night confessions.

Don't eat the cotton candy. It tastes like the first three months of a relationship—sweet, airy, dissolves on your tongue into nothing, and leaves you sticky and unsatisfied. erosland

The point was that you showed up.

I went to Erosland last Tuesday. I went alone. I rode the Whiplash Coaster with a stranger, and for three seconds on the drop, we held hands. At the gift shop, I bought a cheap keychain that reads "I survived." I lost it by Friday. Do try the

See you in line for the bumper cars. (They’re brutal .) Erosland is open 24/7. Location: right between your chest and your stomach. Enter at your own risk.