Grievances of the Partially Shut Door

The wind in cohorts with a partially shut door results in a very acute annoyance. By itself, the wind is a wretched force that disturbs my hair, my body temperature, my lightweight objects; it is a rather mischievous occurrence. It is only redeemed by its warm form, which is such a toasty relief to my cold and alert nerves.

I am now going to share my grievances with wind in the instance of the partially shut door, or rather, my grievances with the partially shut door when accidentally permitted free reign by the slinky wind. The wind offends me by irritatingly nudging a vulnerably cracked door, while the door offends me with its painfully shrewd squeaks and creaks while the latch of the knob kisses the door frame with a shy yet persistent thud, a metallic bump as the door sways with lethargic pressure, opening and closing, with an instigative butt. How it digs at me so, as I’m reading a book, cuddled in bed, opposite the door and next to the window. But the warm breeze brings such pleasant scents on the crests of its wafts, that the only more serious offense than that crummy door would be slamming the window on this angelic day, though the wind runs around with its underwear on its head, kicking doors (but it’s so precious though). And we are Ohioans, thus we know weather is to be cherished day by day, taking no warmth of wind for granted. So that hideous door forces an expulsion of comfort as I arise to shut its un-gratuitous thumping on my rude, unmoving door frame. In fact, it wouldn’t be enough to close the door in a rational fashion, apply only the necessary force to latch the partition closed, and be satisfied; no, there is no satisfaction unless I heave the door, with unnecessary yet necessary energy, throwing my shoulder into it, and then kicking it for good, reaffirming measure. My roommates startle, the neighbors gasp, the pedestrians along the sidewalk outside my building turn their heads, the man across town itching his neck frowns.

I suppose we could all become psychoanalysts then, claim I dislike uncertainty, postulate I have unfinished business bugging me, assert there is a weight on my conscience from a chapter not entirely closed (and of course, issues with my parents, as is always the automatic explanation). But of course that’s true, because nothing can be entirely closed–we are rather emotional creatures living in the culmination of all our experiences–, but quite frankly, I’m just annoyed with the noisy door– that’s all.


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