Dear Texas Giant,

I remember when you were being built way back in the 1990s. You were hailed as the world’s tallest, fastest wooden roller coaster. I anxiously and excitedly awaited your completion. When you finally opened, I stood in line with 5.2 million other sunburned, sweating, impatient people to ride upon your seemingly Southern Yellow Pine-y goodness.

I had no idea that a ride with you would end up like finding myself in a really bad relationship. There were highs and lows. Thrills and disappointments. We had our bumpy moments and we had some laughs, but mostly, you just jerked me around and beat the crap out of me. I won’t miss you. You got away with pounding other people around with your violent, spasmodic personality for almost twenty years and it made you an overzealous serial offender of first-class jerky proportions.

Oh sure, writers and coaster fanatics hailed you as the number one coaster in the world for years, but those people were nothing more than a bunch of coaster loving sadomasochists hellbent on torturing us more sensitive sorts into believing you would gratify us with your hooks to the left and right, neck snapping yanks and head pounding, teeth gnashing so-called woody vibrations.

You were evil incarnate and, thankfully, now your hateful ways are to be destroyed. And while I may shed a tear of vindictive joy or two, my heart has been hardened by your pine-infused knavery and wickedness and I shall feel not on whit of sadness for you. I will watch your invalidation with great glee and as your murderous timbers tremble with trepidation of your re-configuration, as they bash and batter you – as you have bashed and battered millions of us – I will raise my fist in perfect Patton versus Rommel-like defiance and exclaim, “We finally beat you, you brilliant son of a b#@ch!”

Sincerely,

Amanda W.