A Letter To Ikea

By Bianca O'Neill
29th Apr 2016

a letter to ikea

Today I am writing an ode to my lovely New Zealand friends: you don't know, nay appreciate, what kind of idyllic paradise you live in. A world of beautiful scenery, amazing fjords (you have fjords right? I just wanted to shoehorn a fjords ref in here), and—most importantly, most amazingly, most BLISSFULLY—no Ikea. Ikeas? Ikeii? Whatevs. Anyway, the point is: you Niuew Zilinders have got it made.

To fully understand the effect of an Ikea trip on your now rapidly diminishing life expectancy, I will attempt to relay my soul-sucking experience in the pits of Ikea hell that was last Sunday afternoon.

It started with a woman. A lone woman, in the carpark, trying to steal my parking space. She had already been sucked into the self-preserving vortex of Ikea-mind-sickness, a sickness that renders seemingly normal people into this, as soon as they see that blue and yellow sign:

She was making my Ikea stay longer already—and we hadn't even gotten lost in the labyrinth of the Nöhfättpeepl chair section, or the Ulewkügli mirror section. I threatened to hunt her children down and kill them slowly, one by one, and she eventually moved. She did consider it first, though.   

As my husband turned the car off, we looked at each other to have the 'talk'. He told me he promised not to throw a lamp in a fit of rage when we could only find 3/621 of the packages you need to build an Ikea throw rug. I guaranteed him he could get a $1 hotdog if he let me buy weird plastic useless things in the kitchen section without making 'the face'.

We emerged 3 days later, parched, weak, and smelling like Swedish meatballs and child vomit. BUT WE HAD THE DAMN SIDEBOARD. However, the thing you have to understand at this point is... your hell is only just beginning. Now it's time to test your relationship, and everything you ever knew to be real in your life, by attempting to build something that should be really fucking simple, but in fact, somehow needs 431,325 screws to put together.

I have a goddamn engineering degree, and it still took us 4 hours. FOUR. HOURS.

At one point, we had to re-build the whole freaking thing because there was a sole dowel left over that somehow kept the whole thing from collapsing on top of us? Like, that's really concerning to me that there are a billion screws, and yet if you forget one dowel that's it. That one dowel is all that's standing between either living a long happy life, or the cats eating your face off as you starve to death under an Ikea sideboard. #sosad.

My husband attempted to blame me, at which point I casually mentioned the fact that I hated him and wondered why we were even married because he had, like, INCREDIBLY fluffy hair and it was staring at me from across the room. He considered a divorce, fleetingly (?), and backed off. Victorious, I mumbled under my breath:

Eventually, we dragged ourselves over the finish line, sideboard, (in)sanity and Satan in tow. 

However, before you call me 'dramatic', or 'a crackpot crazy who probably needs to see a professional about her issues', here's an irrefutably factual article quoting Satan himself admitting that Ikea is actually, IRL, the tenth circle of hell. So I guess that means I'm 100% right.

Hey, I'm not going to argue with Satan. And certainly not about Ikea. I'VE ALREADY DONE THAT ENOUGH ALREADY THIS WEEK.

Look, when it comes down to it, you have to choose: is it going to be your relationships, or your cut-price Swedish flatpack dream house? Think about your choice very carefully—because one of them takes a lot of work. Plus, your future husband/wife will probably come pre-assembled.

Photo credit: The Ulster Fry

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