I saw on TV once, you know, the clay-limped journalist interviewing a presidential candidate with the dyed toupee, the one who forgot his false teeth at the golf club.

I remember that day vividly. A day so tragic, yet revealing. Consuming and almost changing my whole perspective in life. The cameraman had, on a live telecast, tripped over the tangled web of cabled wire and the official's pineapple-y face loomed into the screen.

The incident darkened my corner, candles to burn, as my bills permit me. The face hovered for a minute. However, the candidate's driver, in alarm, had slammed the heavy door, snagging along the edge of the governor's kilt and exposed a gnarly, sort-of third finger.

I do not blame the chauffeur, mind you. I don't hold the politician accountable either. Even with his slightly iron-burnt peach-and-purple blazer, the star-studded candidate deserved some forgiveness.

Instead, I condemn the door that caught the kilt, a blinding combination of magenta and neon-yellow stripes.

A nonentity, responsible for such a distressing event that the image stilled, allowed radiation molecules to bounce off the box set to the flower-papered wall where the incandescent shadow of the candles crouched.

I blame the metallic door that could have stopped on its way to magnetize itself with its brother.

I say THE DOOR should be prosecuted for its unjustifiable folly.

My friend Meredith once told me to fear death is to die of fear.

I don't think so.

If she had asked, which is worse?

I would answer: To die of fear, probably, where fear dominates you even in death.

You know, I hate dying.

Well, I don't mind dying, but.

Somehow I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of

Doors.

Unfortunately, the door caught the candidate's kilt. His receding hairline was still showing when he made public noon-time announcements as the president of imbeciles.

I'm terrified of doors: garage doors, sliding doors, closet doors, refrigerator doors, swinging doors, elevator doors, revolving doors, and you-name-it-doors.

I'm so petrified that I gave fifty percent of my estate to the pig farm. (I never forget those who look like us.) I left the other half to the government; they especially need it since the president dropped his false teeth again on the 15th hole.

A clause in the lengthy legal document which contains an after-death statement more commonly called as a will, however, stipulates that the conditions to be effective after my demise, the beneficiaries should deprive my coffin of THE door.

THE door that had caught my feet, trying to and succeeding in dragging them down.

THE door that, being an exclusive non-breathing object, had claimed all the responsibilities upon itself.

THE door not living, yet alive.

-o-

My mom had left the garage door open again, forgetting to close it after she had started the car up. This gave me the chills. It also sent me a premonition that Plastic Woman was around.

She appeared at the moment of meeting that line between the garage door and the cold, icy ground. A hand protruded, squashed like minced meat in a food processor. There's a glitter of gold. It must be from her teeth.

I'd hate to be Plastic Woman when Supergirl is here. Supergirl in her tight blue stockings and red cape. Never forget THE red cape. She never leaves home without it. She's holding MOTOROLA 747, a mobile-cellular phone the size of her boot.

She called her Super Friends with their superpowers. Everyone was coming except lceman. Sadly, none of them could save Plastic Woman. The door became an instant enemy, a SuperRival.

They name it THE DOOR.

-o-

Dad swung his hairy, sweaty arm high up. He beckoned from the garden he meticulously kept these last four years. I waved back, soapy water dripping to the insides of my sleeves. I had forgotten to take off the rancid orange Rubbermaid gloves, the eleventh pair I used this week for dishwashing. He seemed to call me, obscenely mouthing "Come here.'

I felt a lump on my forehead. Because I didn't see. I did not see the double-density-thick sliding-glass doors in front of me. All this because of my dad, rushing me to look at twin worms attached at the head. A sight to behold, he said. I presumed he was talking about his hairy chest that it tempted me to water like the chia plant in his garden.

They should put labels on doors. Big white stickers with thick blue ink that say:

"WATCH OUT! Objects in front of you are closer than they appear."

-o-

Coincidences make a dent, one each on both cheesy gold-painted doorknobs that meet at certain angles.

Who's the culprit this time? My mind raced.

0ooops, sorry, answered the shrilly voice behind the other door.

"Sorry" doesn't make matters any better.

"Sorry" doesn't stop the closet door from closing in on me.

I had a dream once.

I dreamt that when I was inside my big, big closet changing into my pink bunny pyjamas. And the last thing I saw was THE door, its knobs twitching into an ugly, cynical smile that seemed to beckon me. If you thought you've seen the Joker, think again.

Maid Memelyn (Meme for short) used to tie my loose, greenish teeth with a string attached to the doorknob. She'd say goodbye and close the door. My dentist lost his job because of Meme. More because of THE DOOR.

-o-

It's that time of year again. The season of sweatbands and tattered running shoes. The prime moment when bicycles reigned the streets. Brother raided the refrigerator for cool pops and ice cream. But he left the fridge door open, emitting light that blinds. Releasing the energy cramped up within for so long. Icicles, v-shaped frosts bang in edges like diamonds on a woman's swan-neck. The door slammed.

THE door slams the truth. Truth, and the reality of it, that I never wanted to know.

-o-

My aunt must have hated me. Her precious little daughter, Her Royal Highness had her fingers caught by the car door. And she blamed me. She condemned me, the "she-devil," the one with the cardboard horns and the stuffed tail so long you could see it even in the 52nd state.

I could still hear my cousin's insolent crying ringing in my ears. I might be an accomplice, I must admit since I had started the door in motion.

But it was the door that had continued on its way.

The door that had made contact with flesh and bones crackling, as the entity reached its goal.

I told them it was THE DOOR. And they wouldn't believe me.

-o-

Never be a waitress at a cowboy's lounge.

It's not the moose's or the oxen's immobile skull on the wall that bothered me. Nor was it the hat on the chef's head.

It was the swinging doors that J. Wayne used to hold at a standstill. The swinging doors that usually went the wrong way, splattering root beer with egg onto someone else's lap.

THE door had gotten me fired. Don't let it fire you.

It was hard enough explaining to your boss how you did not mean to do what you did.

It'll be harder to say that it was THE door's fault.

-o-

When I don't have a choice, then the choice is taken away from me. I have to use that yellow trashy metal container they call the elevator. Stairs will only give me a ruptured spleen and a spinal dislocation. And I had no other alternatives.

My doctor diagnosed me recently with a psychological problem common to people regularly going in and out of buildings: Entamaphobia. The unintelligible fear of doors.

It started back home when I frequented the hospital, which smelled of disinfectant. I had to use the medicine-green elevator and its unlimited rows of flashing buttons. Sadly, the doors were not automatic. They squeezed on me, jamming my shoulder blades together. I must have looked like a turtle without a neck.

A couple of months later, I heard that a doctor's leg had been trapped by the closing doors. I was luckier. The doctor still has two legs; only the other is a crutch.

Filing a petition for damages in court would be futile. Directors refused to consider the story of THE door being sentenced if proven guilty. Banning them wouldn't do any good. THE door always gets away. THE door never gets the blame.

-o-

I don't want to feel like a wimp. But I do.

Because I think I am.

I won't put up with the spinning headaches and the sense of claustrophobia I get when I go through revolving doors. Those doors that children view as a carnival ride. Those doors that conjure up electric charges or neutrons and numbers I left to my teacher in class.

What are Emergency side doors if not for urgent use?

Nausea is an emergency.

Ask my mom. She knows. Ask my brother. He knows. Ask anyone. Everyone knows.

Even if it's blowing snow and ice, I'd go out of my way not to meet Mr. Revolving Door to avoid seeing those color-spotted images and the cloud of distorted people careening through revolving doors as if they were the next play-pen.

It is true. Do you think I would lie?

-o-

I promised myself I would not die a tragic death.

Much less a strange death.

Not because of THE DOOR.

I don't want to give THE door the satisfaction. The gratification of two veiny legs under a red skirt sprawled on the ground after the door cast its spell. Like the pleasure it got from the president's burial.

The satisfaction THE DOOR ultimately had and would have.