Your discontentment is deafening.

Door slammers scare me. It's these people who can't really voice out their discontentment and choose to express in the form of door slamming. Or cup slamming on whatever available surface. Feet stompers, even at the age of 60. Handbag chuckers. I worry about Handbag Chuckers. Surely you are worried about the contents of your purse? Something sounds broken in there. Or maybe you had premeditated this whole chucking routine and had filled your handbag with glass shards from that bathroom mirror that you had smacked down on your dresser this morning.

I understand aggression. Coming from a person who is so angry with the world for reasons from one end of the spectrum to the other - I understand anger. Just fucking voice it out.

Why is it that whenever I try to partake in this whole Door Slamming business, I get my fingers trapped and I'm left on the other side of the slammed door with tears in my eyes and feeling like a twat? Am I not made to slam doors with elegance? The last time I tried to slam a door, I ended up with my bedroom slipper left behind on the other side and said slipper stopped the door from slamming shut. I opened the door again with Jaz staring at me, smiling, and I felt like a blooming arsehole and I had to yell out a resounding string of vulgarities at the door, door handle, door jamb, slipper and then decided I might as well cuss out the carpeted floor, just so that each and every bit of the doorway got the same treatment.

My experience with slamming doors have never been pretty so I am guessing that is why my development in the Art of Slamming Doors is sadly stunted. When I slammed a door back home then to express my teenage frustration of not being able to sleep over at a mate's, I get greeted with my bedroom door being kicked back open a mere seconds away and since it was only a short time I had slammed it shut, it ended with the door being kicked open INTO me, followed by the terrifying presence of My Mother. If I had stomped up the stairs, and since we lived in Singapore where stairs were made of concrete and not shoddy, wooden floorboards like most houses here in England, I had to put in extra effort to make that stomping noise. We also do not wear our shoes in our houses, so we had no Doc Martens or even shitty foam-soled sandals to help us out. And with all that extra effort, I still got chased up the floor by Mother, had my waist-length hair then yanked back, followed by a slap.

So you see, I didn't get that opportunity to explore the many dramatic avenues of expressing myself. I had to make do with either sucking it up or screaming into a pillow after collapsing onto my bed Bollywood-style. Now as an adult, I feel a resentment for Door Slammers.

Since I can't slam doors with such flourish, I will proceed to slam Door Slammers. You lot are pussies. What are you trying to convey when you slam doors? If you are pissed off at me, tell me about it. Don't slam your cups down on kitchen counters if you are not happy. Chuck the cup in my face and let's have a proper punch up. Let's beat the fuck out of each other. Let us yell at each other until we are blue in the face. Tell me what is not right in your world.

I am so used with people telling that they are pissed off with me until I don't do silent treatment very well. I would just assume that whatever is wrong in your world, it is not me.

I think I am turning into my mother because now when a door is slammed in my presence, I instantly feel the urge to kick the door down and yell 'WHAT! WHAT! NOT HAPPY?! WHAT! DO YOU WANT TO DIE IN MY HANDS TONIGHT?! WHAT!'