It’s the day that warmongering fuckwits murdered four of my friends. I think perhaps this one is just too big to have a single name, too large to be known by some catchy little moniker that can be stamped on a calendar and an excuse for more greeting cards.
That day of infamy is a bit too fresh and too raw for me to even attempt to sum it up in 3 syllables or less by attaching a catch phrase to it. Maybe in 20 years I’ll have healed enough to be able to refer to it by a single name.
Then again, perhaps it won’t ever feel that way to me, because far too many emotions went through my heart in those 24 hours to encapsulate it, stamp a title on it, and mass market it as the word of the day.
I felt anger, sadness, despair, pain, torment, anguish, nausea, dizzy, hyperactive, morbidly humorous, shocked, numb, proud, reassured, patriotic and about a million other things I can’t describe in words on the day that 19 hijacking pieces of shit turned four planes full of innocent people into weapons of mass destruction, attacked two cities, were thwarted in a third attack by truly patriotic Americans, obliterated four of my friends, murdered nearly 3000 other people and brought forth the wrath and vengance of a country as diverse yet as united as America is.
There was nothing quite so disheartening as seeing it live on Fox News Channel knowing that my friends were in there and I could not help them, and nothing so reaffirming as knowing that 40 people on an airplane lived the definition of the American militia somewhere in the sky over Somerset County.
I can’t sum up that day, the that would only be deminished in its importance by naming it.