It's a pleasure to imagine being sucked someplace, like into the earth (presumably the bowels), into outer space, into another dimension. It's always been too easy for me to feel childishly ill at ease, tortured by silences, so I somehow picked up the habit of envisioning catastrophe as a distraction. The balcony groans and then collapses, causing everyone to spill their drinks and stop living, poison gas enters the room with a menacing hiss (a mail slot or keyhole foolishly left unsecured), and always the swirling vortex opening up in the floor. The vortex sucks awkwardness out of the atmosphere but there's minor collateral damage, such as me winking out of existence. Sometimes a fluffy dog is sucked into the vortex with me and one presumes we embark on a happy adventure in another space-time, the Realm of Inexhaustible Treats, plenty for both of us, what our new interdimensional friends call a float 'n' bloat, or maybe we're both simply hurled into oblivion, which is no adventure at all.