Thirteen years ago. I remember everything. Where I was. Who I talked to. How I felt.
I haven't forgotten.
I will never forgive.
I'm still angry.
I have 2,977 reasons to hate those bastards and everyone that supports them.
Remember. Today. Tomorrow. Next month. Twenty years from now.
Never forget. Never forgive.
This year, at least, I live close to the museum where the Enola Gay is stored. I may pay a visit today, to remind myself that there was a time in history when we visited appropriate punishment on our enemies. When attacking the United States of America meant that you ate hot, flaming nuclear death on a stick.
That time, sadly, has passed.
Remember those who gave their lives that day, some willingly, like the passengers on Flight 93, or the heroes on the NYPD and NYPD and EMS that went into the World Trade Centers to save lives if they could. Knowing that they were facing almost certain death, they went in anyway. Heroes. Big damn heroes. Right up there with all who signed up to serve our country and bring the fight to the enemy. I'm sorry we lost that resolve. We're seeing everything we fought for - that those brave men and women fought for - crumbling as we dither and fret about how the world sees us.
I don't give a hairy rat's patoot if they love us. I don't care if they respect us. I want them to fear us. I want the next terrorist @$$hole who talks about blowing something in America up to be shot by his own compatriots, out of pure unmitigated fear that we might hear about it and come back and do to them what we did to the last group that messed with us.
I remember Vicki Yancey. She was a kind, sweet person (despite being a lefty). She had a husband and two boys that she thought the world of. And she died in a flaming plane crash because some twisted bastards thought they could scare us that way. That we didn't turn their training camp into 50,000º orange glass will someday be viewed as the biggest mistake we made in the "war" on terror.
I hate them. I hated them on September 11th, 2001. I hate them today. I'll hate them on my deathbed.
But it's not all about hate. It's about payback, too:
That one makes me cry. Still. Never forget.
That is all.