A door is a door is a door is a … what?

Ye deities of one’s preference.

A number of things happened this day.

First. I got hangover without drinking. The god of Hangover (see Pratchett, Hogfather) might have mixed up the doors or something.

Second. I woke up at 5 a.m. O misery, o moonless snowy night. O world indescribable by mortal words. I have not been the same ever since.

Third. The little green men that normally swim in my coffee, those ones had gone and painted themselves deep brown, so I could not see them. Cheerless, I consumed my coffee. And because of the hangover, I could soon see it again. And so on.

Fourth. I got bloody lost in the Alte Mensa. That building has those steel firedoors, with weird handles. Those doors go ‘click’ at some point of one’s passage through them. And the handles do not work after that click. So I spent an educational half an hour studying my possibilities to escape from the corridor. I contemplated panicking for a moment, but then realised that there would be no human to watch me panic. What a waste of energy. Then I tried the door again, and lo! it was locked as before. Then I walked down to the ground floor, and tried the door that lead outside. That door was shut. Then I climbed up again, to the door that I had entered by, and surprisingly, it was as locked as before. Then I observed some footprints outside the groundfloor door from the first floor, and a thought entered my mind: what if this door is only _frozen_ ? and I descended and I rattled the handle, and I gave the door a mighty push, and it sprang open, it released me from the corridor.
Then I got frustrated, and went to vent my anger to this blog entry.

Fifth. I still have the hangover. Without drinking, too. If anybody see that wee god of hangover, he is known to walk around saying ‘oh, me’ and complaining of a headache all the time, give me the word. Just give me the word.


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