September eleventh changed my life. And not in the way the average American felt the day a group of sick fuck terrorists crashed into the towers. My pain was different; my father was in the first tower that fell. But, wait, it gets worse: September eleventh is also my birthday.

At eighteen years old, I had no goals, no dreams, no desires. I was a kid about to become a man and had no idea what I wanted out of life. Most of my friends planned on going to law school or becoming a doctor. Me? I just wanted to play video games and drink Monster until I crashed.

My indecisiveness infuriated my parents. My mom, an executive assistant, and my dad, a businessman, wanted me to grow up to be successful enough to move out and buy a house of my own. My father, in particular, had an incredible work ethic. While his hard work and dedication to his job positively impacted his company, it didn’t always benefit our family. I spent countless nights as a child sitting by my window, waiting to see my father stride up to our front door.

My parents wanted me to be rich, just like them. Money didn't matter to me, though. Maybe because I'd grown up affluent, or perhaps because I didn't feel like I needed it to be happy. I don't know. All I thought back then was my future was far away, so why worry about it?

Even though my parents pressured me about adulthood, my childhood was incredible. My favorite moments? The simple ones. Like, one day my father came home early from work, which was incredibly rare, and took me out of school. We called my mom at her office and told her there was an emergency, and she had to come home right away. When she arrived, Dad and I had ordered a pizza and picked out a bunch of movies from Blockbuster. Naturally, my mom wasn't thrilled about how we enticed her to leave work, but she was so surprised, all she could do was laugh. We blew off our responsibilities for the day and had a movie marathon on the couch.

Or, another time, a massive snowstorm hit the city and snowed us in for a few days. The power went out soon after the local anchor announced the school closings in our area. At first, I was scared without power, but my mom lit candles all around our brownstone. We played board games under the subtle flames around us and napped together on a nest of fleece blankets I created on the floor. When the power eventually came back on, I cried like a little girl. I wanted to spend more time with my parents in the dark. Without cell phones, without the computer, and yes, without the TV.

The simple days were my favorite days.

In the fall of 2001, I enrolled, with some difficulty, as a freshman at NYU. I had average grades, played sports in high school and joined a club or two my senior year. With the help of my grandparents, my mom's parents, NYU reluctantly accepted me. I'm sure the hefty donation my Papa and Nana sent helped. I hadn't chosen a major yet, so I registered for electives. This didn't please my parents. They constantly urged me to pick a major as though the world would end the very next day. Little did we know, it would.

That Tuesday started off like any other day of the week. It was my birthday, and my only plans consisted of going to my favorite Italian spot around the block with my parents for dinner. I wasn't huge on birthdays. I didn't like the attention. I had a few classes in the morning: Biology and Intro to Psychology. Bio started at eight in the morning. I wanted to skip, but I missed the last two lectures. My professor didn't take attendance, but I realized if I missed too many classes I'd fall too far behind to catch up. Biology bored me to death; I didn't want to torture myself having to teach myself at home.

I lugged my lean, six-foot-three body out of bed, dressed in a pair of dirty jeans and a black V-neck tee shirt. I sniffed under my arms and wrinkled my nose. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to shower, but it was just a dumb class. Wasn't like I went to campus to scout for chicks. Most of the girls at NYU were too stuck up for my taste, anyway.

I loved living so close to campus. The short distance between home and school allowed me to walk on fair weather days and take in the one-of-a-kind city sights along the way. The vendors, the coffee shops, the hustle and bustle of the city took my breath away.

The lecture that Tuesday centered around the endocrine system. I nearly fell asleep on my desk. Professor Binds spoke with one of the most monotonous voices I'd ever heard. If someone wasn't snoring ten minutes into the lecture, then pigs were flying across the Brooklyn Bridge.

Class wrapped up around 8:40; I decided to skip Psych. I wanted to visit my dad at work and surprise him. I hadn't visited his office in quite some time, but I figured he could possibly take an early lunch, and we could hang out. It was my birthday, after all. How could he say no? But, once I walked outside and into the city air, something seemed very wrong. My bones ached with anxiety.

Sirens screeched in the distance; smoke billowed into the brilliant blue sky, and everywhere I looked, people pointed in the direction of the World Trade Center. I held my breath and peered in that direction, too. Then I saw it: the smoke was coming from the towers. Girls cried, and mass panic had begun to spread like wildfire. I stood frozen. The smoke was coming from a part of the building I knew quite well. Without a doubt, I knew the fire and flames licked a floor of the tower I'd visited often. I could point out my father's office in a picture of the World Trade Center in the blink of an eye. In my very core, I knew my father was dead.