8:30 a.m. "Any excuse to skip Magazine Editing...please," I thought to myself. Getting ready in the morning was a particularly laborious process because my left arm was still in a cast. I had to take a bath, wash my almost-shoulder length hair with one hand, and wear something that would allow room for my unwelcome arm apparatus. I signed on to AOL to check my e-mail. Lauren sent me an instant message. "Turn on CNN," she said. No. "The Trade Center? When did this happen? Was it an accident? What idiot crashes a plane into a building that tall?" And then, before my very eyes, in real time, the second plane hit.

We didn't know what to think. We had to put our faith in something and point our hatred at the lack of answers and the culpable possibilities. Meaningless candle light vigils in the park that weren't going to bring back anyone or heal the damage. Redundant conversations about the fragility of America and our disproven naivete. Pseudo-individuals preaching love and forgiveness. Numb. Going to Rachel and Christie's makes me feel better. Can't help, didn't affect me, why am I crying? hate. God help us.