Over the weekend, between me damaging my liver in your garden variety watering holes or smoking some street grade marijuana with a woman damn near 10 years my junior hoping that I'd eventually get that "...but when I was 17 she was seven" bullshit out of my head so I could penetrate her guilt free, most of the conversations had to do with what they were doing when they learned about the biggest attack on American soil. I heard one story from a woman who said that she was supposed to be on one of the planes that went down, but luckily decided to spend an extra day with her boyfriend. I listened to an eye-witness account from a New Yorker, one who moved to Virginia last year, telling me how she can't get the sound of that second plane hitting the towers out of her head and the continuous nightmares she has because of it. I even heard a cliff-hanger of a story about a friend of mines mother who worked in the World Trade Center and his agonizing failed attempts to get in contact with her for hours or so, only to see her on his front steps.(She had planned to surprise her son with a visit, that's timing like a motherfucker)
I know that I shouldn't feel bad about not having an interesting "where were you during 9/11" story, it was a tragedy for christ's sake, but where I was actually at is not only pretty uninteresting but its also sort of pathetic. Ok, for all the emails that I have received and my friends who wanted to know, I'll tell you where I was during the 9/11 attacks:
See, by September 2001 I was an emotional wreck, my father had died a few months earlier and my girlfriend of 5 years had just left me for man who was the equivalent of a panhandler. Sprinkle my mother's breast cancer diagnosis as the emotional seasoning, and that was the perfect recipe for HumanityCritic's self destruction. I smoked weed like people smoke Newports, I drank 151 like it was Gatorade, and my nightly ritual was finding the biggest and baddest motherfucker in the bar and picking a fight with him, either by just stealing the guy in the jaw or disrespecting his lady friend in some deplorable fashion. I guess because I didn't have the guts to put a shotgun barrel in my mouth and paint my bedroom walls a very interesting red color, I guess my actions were my way of ending my life. Not only that, some of the women that I chose to penetrate, lets just say that I wouldn't do that to my worst enemy.
During the early hours of 9/11 I was getting totally shitfaced in a bar in Norfolk Virginia listening to a local band that I enjoy, throwing back so many shots that career alcoholics were telling me that I'd had enough. As I stumbled to my car, dodging oncoming traffic and my own vomit as I tried not to ruin my clothes, I slept in the backseat until approximately 2:30. When I woke up I felt refreshed and horny, so I called this chick named Willetta in Hampton to see if I could get some early morning affection. Even though my breath still smelled like vomit, I was still legally drunk, and Willetta stayed a half hour away(Hampton), I decided to drive to the house of a woman that I affectionately nicknamed "Practice Vagina". I get there and tell her that I need to use her bathroom, where I urinate, wash my hands, then I tried to discreetly gargle some of her mouth wash to get that regurgitated cheeseburger smell out of my mouth. Even though she is in the bed anxiously awaiting my arrival even though our 2 previous sexual encounters ended with her saying, "Oh hell naw, that's it??", I go in her kitchen and throw back a bottle of her gin like it's lemonade.
When I get to bed and start consummating our early morning agreement, I kept thinking to myself "If I survive this state of depression that I'm in, I'm going to be horrified at all the unprotected sex that I've had!" A few hours later I wake up, look over and she is knocked the fuck out in a "mouth wide open, snoring like a freight train" state. I quickly think that my Olympic thrusting did that, but then I look down at my penis and realize that can't be true. I walk to her living room butt naked, sitting in a sofa chair she had sitting in front of the T.V., that's when my germaphobia finally kicked in as I thought about all the other guys before me who probably sat naked in that same chair as well. I noticed that she had an intense DVD collection, and even though I'm not a thief by nature, I told myself since she wasn't my girlfriend she wouldn't mind losing a couple if she had the right selection. As I drunkenly rummage through her CD collection, wincing at the fact that she had 2 copies of the Vivica Fox movie "Two can play that Game", I turned the news on and saw that a plane had struck the World Trade Center. By this time it had been a few minutes and the world at that point thought it was an accident, that was until the second plane had hit the towers. Willetta had finally joined me in her living room, rubbing her eyes, openly wondering why a few of her DVD's were in my overnight bag. Before I could tell her that our country was being attacked, she asked me about her gin that was half gone.. When she realized what was going on she was glued to the television for a few minutes like I was, that was until she kicked me out for being the worst temporary house guest ever. That's where I was during the attacks, and as a reminder of that I have a copy of "Two Can play that Game".
(This post was in no way to disrespect the many people who lost their lives on 9/11, just a truthful account of my whereabouts.)