Slam.

A slam of a door speaks trebles and basses. The louder, the more effective. The more they roll their eyes at you and allow those vibrations to unlock rage. Silent, shimmering rage and irritation. Gets funny after a while, they think. It's just her hormonal imbalance due to the monthly-thing-that-must-not-be-named, they snicker. It's become a long, running joke. They ignored everything else. (Psh, men.)

You can't take your aggression out on people. You were taught better (?) than that. You were refused martial arts classes. On the basis that you were girl, but still. Violence wasn't the answer. So I chose to take it out on doors. I don't ever slam them too hard. The glass on that damn door didn't shatter, (so be grateful, damn it).

Temper tantrums, they called them. I don't know who 'they' are, really. Snooty intellectuals who think they can understand the human psyche and attempt to cure it from whatever ailments happen deep down in those dark abysses of circuits and connections and something that no one could quite explain. Slamming doors were for kids to unleash some sort of rebellion during those tumultuous teenage years.

(Old habits die hard.)

If I didn't have door-slamming, I'd be an alcoholic. Or a druggie. Or a pothead. It's more economical too. And more friendly on my sparse wallet. I could be a serial killer. A psychopath. Sociopath. Think of how therapeutic slamming a door is. You hear that (SLAM!) and the anger dissipates. You stew a little longer, but the anger's gone.

Not trying to justify or rationalize anything.

Okay, okay, fine. I'm sorry for slamming the door onto your hand. I'll try not to do it when your hand is near the door next time.

(You be careful next time.)