I had little patience for Ikea. The vast MDF metropolis seemed to span on indefinitely past reasonable walking distance, the narrow paths adorned with boastfully simple designs that belied the complexity of their construction. The end rewards comprising themselves of infinite ketchup and the victory mantra of; "some assembly required".
"Not a good day."
I slumped against my hastily built and lopsided credenza, basking in the cool relief of pseudo-accomplishment. There had been little to no help provided for me as I'd navigated the endless towers of Ikea's warehouse-come-citadel, obviously another shopping centre in which I'm just sort of 'expected to know' what I'm doing.
"I fucking hate shopping." I announced to a jar of supposedly "Swedish" hotdogs. Still, despite missing a leg, the credenza seemed sturdy enough and I suppose I can take some solace in that.
"Cheers Sweden, here's to shit furniture, Vikings and inexplicably fast, rural broadband."
I toasted the sentiment with a cold hotdog, which I raised accordingly before swallowing the gastronomic afterbirth that was Ikea cuisine.
As evening bled away into night and the sky's blue darkened through pink to black, I lay awake listening to the wind. The increasingly rare sound of nocturnal wildlife ebbed briefly, adding it's own predatory serenity to the scene before the groaning set in. Between the gargled moans of vacant transience, the occasional crash piqued its way in from the distance. Like wayward drunks ambling waywardly into things, struggling to make their way home coherently.
Waking early, I sat up to gaze out of the third floor Ikea window, my back resting against the lopsided credenza now blocking the closet door. The morning sky looked more-or-less the same as it ever had, dawn seeping orange into blue. Less birds though.
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