Let me tell you about one of the biggest nuisances I have to deal with.

Usually this doesn’t happen too often, just once a year or so. I mean when I’m living somewhere like in an apartment or a house with some buddies. Unfortunately, I’ve been unemployed for almost two years now, and I had to move back in with my mom and (wouldn’t you know it) the room I grew up in was the only room available.

I have a love/hate relationship with that room. On the one hand, I have all these pleasant memories of listening to Sesame St. records, painting lead figures, watching scrambled cable porn and getting my first erections. On the negative side, I killed my first pet (a goldfish) sleepwalking, learned that dove magic wasn’t real with a disastrously failed experiment involving a curious George Book and I still haven’t had sex with another person in that room despite the fact that I can’t say that about any other room in the house. Oh, and don’t EVEN get me started on the Booger Wall.

But the worst part about that room is that the floor disappears much more often there. Something like once every couple of months.

I imagine most of you are a bit incredulous, like some of the others I made the mistake of revealing this personal problem to. I’m sure I can’t be the only one this happens too, but I have yet to meet someone else who will admit it.

It starts with me lying on my bed staring at the ceiling. All indications that an outside world exists have to be gone. This involves closing all the curtains so no daylight gets in. This isn’t a big deal since I’ve got those plastic ones on rollers that are all but airtight. Because of my privacy issues, I keep them down 95% of the time anyways.

Other things that get the ball rolling are listening to a walkman that drowns out the street sounds, being alone in the house and not having talked to anyone all day. Strangely, it only seems to happen in the day or early evening and the lights MUST be on. Darkness doesn’t trigger it.

So, assuming I do all that and mentally I’m in the proper state of isolation and loneliness (again, not a problem), I’d say there’s about a ten percent chance that the floor will disappear. Sometime, if I’m suspicious, I’ll let my right leg dangle over the bed to make sure the floor is still there. If it is, great. If it’s not…

If it’s not, then I’ve got a long climb. When the floor disappears, there is nothing but seemingly endless replications of my room below. It’s not endless, but I can never see the floor from the top. A couple times I tried counting, but I always seem to lose count long before I reach the bottom.

I know what you’re thinking. Why don’t I just pop a window? I tried that the first time, chief. Oh, I can get the window open, but there’s nothing outside. Just a lot of cold gray fog. A couple times I’ve thought: Just jump. Just friggin jump. But some how I always chicken out. See, I figure that since there is a floor far below me inside the room, I figure there’s a floor outside too. I wouldn’t jump out of a hundred-story window normally, and I ain’t going to start now. So I always make the climb.

Climbing down is tough, because you have to jump from one piece of furniture down to either it’s exact duplicate or another piece, hanging there in the air. I have no idea what is keeping them fixed, hanging there, but whatever it is it’s strong enough to support my weight without budging. It’s kinda like the floor is still there, only I can’t see it and only I can move through it.

I’m sure your seeing some of the possibilities here. I once grabbed a big handful of change lying on my dresser. My plan was to keep doing that on each floor and make some cool cash while I was stuck in this little pocket dimension. But when I jumped down to the bed below, I got pinned mid air! I’m not making this up, I was being held up by my pockets! The change apparently found the floor (which was now the ceiling) and wouldn’t budge. It took me half an hour to get safely down from that predicament and, well, I had to make the rest of the climb without the use of my pants. That was not fun.

But it never is. I always reach the bottom with enough burses and bumps for an entire Rugby team. And I HAVE broken bones during these climbs. Six, maybe seven times. Those times the climb really sucks since I still need to get down, but have to do it with a broken arm, leg or rib. I tried resting once. All that happened was I got hungrier and hungrier. Man, that one was the worst.

The pain is only for the climb though. When I finally reach the bottom, I usually roll around on the carpet for a few minutes like a cat with a skin rash. Then I hop back on the bed, close my eyes and wait for the firsts sounds of the street outside. Then I know I’m home again. The pain quickly wears off and visible damage is healed.

Time gets dilated some when the floor disappears. It may have been an eight or sixteen hour climb, but when I’m back in my normal, one-story room, it will be like only a half-hour has passed. After that, I usually keep my windows open for a week or so until I fall back into my old habits.

Never happened to you? Well be thankful. It’s a real pain in the ass. Sometimes I wonder, why me? I’m the only one I know who this happens too. Is it a punishment? Am I paying off Karma? Or is it some type of opportunity that I haven’t figured out how to use yet. I try to look for changes each time I come back to make sure that I’m back in the same dimension. But it’s always the same. Nothing ever seems to change. If anything, my life has gotten worse. I told you I was unemployed and living at home right?

What? The door? Sure the first time I…I mean I think I…errr….No. Come to think, I never have tried the door to my room. It’s hard to get to from my bed. But I’ll bet I could get there now since I moved the computer table…I wonder…

Hey, I gotta go. I need to get home.