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So, 9/11 here again. Seven years, people. Seven years since something they were saying on Stern penetrated my sleeping brain and made me sit bolt upright in bed at 6:15 a.m., going, “Wait! What?” and knowing that something really bad ugly was happening. Thirty seconds later we had the computer and the TV both on as well, and saw and heard and felt all the same things you saw and heard and felt. Wondering whether my sister was OK (she had just started a job 2 blocks from the WTC). Fighting thick cobwebs of disbelief and shock, thoughts from “oh god I just saw 10,000 people die” to “well I guess I won’t be wearing those cute new red pants, this isn’t that kind of world anymore” ping-ponging around in my head with almost equal weight, deciding fuck NO I wasn’t going to work in downtown SF today – remember that? Remember how dangerous everything suddenly felt? Remember that core-level terror, the fear that made you cower in your apartment and try to call everyone you knew? And as the horrible day wore on, realizing with sucking, paralyzing dread that the hand of George W. Bush was on the wheel of the ship of state, and knowing without a shred of doubt that as horrific as this day was, things were actually about to get worse?