Claude Khalife, a sophomore majoring in international affairs, is a Hatchet opinions writer.

I rarely feel deep sympathy for inanimate objects – but the whitewashed wooden door that separates Thurston Room 503 from the fifth floor hallway is one of those exceptions.

If the door could speak, I imagine it would recount tales of its trials through the raspy voice of a grizzled Vietnam War veteran describing dark, terrifying nights in the jungle.

It may not have survived gunfire or grenade attacks, of course, but my former door has definitely been through hell. It’s been splattered with food (in various states of decomposition), liquor (a tragedy) and even certain malodorous bodily fluids (use your imagination with that one).

For the entirety of my freshman year, that door served as a bridge between my relatively peaceful room and the chaos that descended on the hallway at least three nights of out seven.

Thurston Hall has never been known for tranquility, but even armed with knowledge of its reputation, my first few weeks living there were still a shock. I was, after all, a kid from a small, quiet home tucked into a small, quiet cul-de-sac of a small, quiet suburb of Boston.

Quickly, I grew used to what I liked to call the “soundtrack” of Thurston: a mix of drunken male bellows and female shrieks – the mating calls of young, newly independent Millennials – mixed with thundering bass, constant beeps from the ancient elevators and doors slamming ceaselessly at all hours.

For freshmen already bragging to hometown friends about how Playboy named Thurston the Most Sexually Active Dorm in the nation (dubious), you’re in for a wild ride.

But you’re also incredibly lucky, because after 85 years of memories being made (and obliterated by the next morning), there is a strange sort of sacredness imbued in Thurston.

Certainly, the dorm lags behind other residence halls in terms of appearance, but it manages to make up for its moldy bathrooms and cramped quarters with spirit.

Living in Thurston is often called the “quintessential freshman experience.” But that’s not just because the majority of the freshman class lives there – it’s because of the history of the place.

You’re able to feel the presence of the thousands and thousands who lived, ate, studied and engaged in various forms of hedonism between those walls before you were even alive.

You can open your desk and see the etchings left by past residents (my personal favorite: “Tupac never forget West Coast ’96”).

Some former tenants can’t resist making a visit years later – from alumni couples who initially met in these halls and are now happily married to inebriated upperclassmen who like to tell old war stories to whoever will listen.

For those in other dorms, you’ll surely still have an incredible freshman year. Yet for you brave souls who are following in my footsteps and committing to a full nine months in Thurston Hall, a few quick words of advice: cherish every moment, even the ones you don’t think you should, because you’re not just living in a dorm. You’re writing the newest chapters of this building’s history.

And last but not least, be kind to your doors. God knows they deserve it.