I’ll Never Forget 9/11, But 9/11 Seems to Have Completely Forgotten About Me
There comes a time in every boy’s life when he has to stop forgetting things and start remembering them. I remember that day precisely. It was September 11th, 2001, the day after some other stupid day I don’t remember and don’t care to. I was in Spanish class and the teacher, Mr. Spain, asked me to conjugate a school bus in pure Mexican. I told him “Who are you, what am I sitting in, what are these blue tubes that surround my large bottom arms, why am I breathing, if I stopped would I still be okay until I figure these things out.”
Then a student ran in, yelling “9/11, don’t forget, 9/11, never forget,” and I immediately replied with “Mr. Spain, desk, pants, no one calls them ‘bottom arms’ they’re just called ‘legs,’ breathing gives my body precious oxygen and I shouldn’t ever stop.” From then on, I never forgot a single thing that’s ever happened to me. And it’s all thanks to my unrequited love, 9/11.
Not being able to forget anything confers several advantages on a bulbous brain boy like me. For one thing, I remember all my enemies, and their weak points. I remember how every book ends, including the dictionary (“‘And that was the end of all my words,’ said Lord Verboleum as the zillion zebras zigged and zagged behind him”). And I remember most hairs.
Unfortunately, there are some things I’d like to forget. I’d like to forget that 9/11 has completely forgotten about me!
I keep texting 9/11 to let it know I’ve never forgotten it. No response. I call, and 9/11’s mom picks up and tells me “9/11…isn’t here right now.” I can her 9/11 giggling in the background. I know you’re there, 9/11!
This was the last Facebook convo I had with 9/11:
I HATE 9/11!
I love 9/11.
I can’t stop thinking about 9/11.