Heavy doors.

My major pet peeves are as follows:

1) People throwing garbage out of car windows;
2) Being guilt-tripped in a supposedly joking manner that doesn't sound very funny at all;
3) Heavy doors.

Yes, heavy doors. Why do I hate them so much? And I do hate them.

Y'know what I'm talking about? Those doors that weigh, like, 300 lbs for no apparent reason? And you go to open them and nearly wrench your shoulder because you predict the door will be a normal door, but when you pull it you only get it about halfway open and then it hits you in the side as you try to squeeze through? Yeah. I hate those things.

I am sure they have a purpose. Perhaps they are fire doors? Yes, probably. (I'd like to apologize to the many fire fighters who read my blog and who are currently shaking their heads at my ignorance. "Of course they're fire doors," they're thinking. "Why must you torture us with your stupidity?")

But fire doors or not, they make me cranky. I like to project any latent anger that has built up during my day onto these inanimate objects, as though they are somehow to blame. "Curse you, door! Why must you make my life more difficult?"

It's a cheap form of therapy, I suppose.