There’s this weird energy at Ikea.
You browse around there and you see all these tiny, perfectly organized environments and you think “yes, my life could be like this– organized, cozy, manageable.” No ash or stains ground into the carpet or weird mildew growing on the walls. No pile of burned DVDs falling off the coffee table, no stack of old magazines on the couch. No dust or crumbs on the table. Everything in its right place, accessible and labeled and placed just so. Everything is perfect.
You find yourself sleepwalking through the store in a kind of organizational delerium, seeing engineered environment after engineered environment, impeccably laid out. But it’s not real, man, it’s not fucking real. The TVs are made of plastic and they don’t turn on. The books on the shelves are in an alien language and unlike your books they’re all the same size and colour.
Ikea presents an unreality. It’s a symbol of the perfectly organized life you can never have. But you want it. You crave it. That’s why you keep buying fucking Billy bookcases and hoping maybe this one is the one that subdues the clutter of consumer objects in your house that stands as a symbol of the chaotic, meaningless fragments of events that make up your reality but it never works, man. It just never works. No matter how many times you organize your record collection your soul is still shattered.
At least your records are alphabetized.