Dear Diary. When I was a boy, I always liked going to Ikea. I got to play on the bunk beds and got free pencils. And as I got older, I looked forward to the day when I would be finally walking around Ikea as an adult and choosing things for my own apartment. And now, this day has finally come, and let me tell you, it's a disappointment. The nearest Ikea is 100 kilometres away so we have to use the website instead. This means that instead of walking around Ikea going, "I'll have that, and I'll have that", I'm hunched over a laptop. I mean, what fun is Ikea if you can't even go to Ikea?

Plus the Ikea website is making me want to kill myself.

"Try refreshing the page," I suggest to Girlfriend.

"We just have to wait," she says.

Like every poor family who can't afford anything better, we get all our furniture from Ikea. That is, we would if the webpage would load. The loading icon has been spinning around for two minutes now. I can feel the precious moments of my life draining away like sand in an hourglass.

You know what? I'm not killing myself. I'll kill Mr Ikea instead. That is, if there is a Mr Ikea. The founder of Ikea, I mean. I mean, there must a founder, and it makes sense that he would name Ikea after himself. I imagine him sitting in his office (furnished with his own Ikea furniture) and laughing at the poor bastards who are trying to use his website, while he smokes a cigar and then puts his cigar out on the head of a Chinese sweatshop worker (who is making the furniture).

The webpage is still loading.

It's like how McDonald's is named after Ronald McDonald. Or something. If I'm killing Ikea's founder, by the way, then I'm definitely killing Ronald McDonald too while I'm at it. I might as well kill two people because it's just efficient, and Ronald McDonald is a good target because he's a scary clown.

Just when I'm about to slit my wrists and throat with a kitchen knife, the page loads. Suddenly there are photos of beautiful living rooms.

"Oooh, that one looks nice," says Girlfriend. "Or that one."

I don't trust Girlfriend's decisions when it comes to interior design. Leave it up to her and all the colours in our living room will be garishly mismatched like a hand-me-down clown's outfit. (I have clowns on my mind for some reason.) Everything will be a different style too and we'll end up with a living room that looks like the inside of a thrift store.

Our living room is like that now, actually. All of our furniture is of different styles, giving our apartment a freakish, Frankenstein quality. We have at least five different types of wood in our living room. Black wood, white wood, dark wood, light wood. For fuck sake. Just burn it all in a fire.

The Ikea website has all these amazing pictures of apartments that you could have. You can see the picture right there. So why isn't there a button to click that orders all your furniture from the picture? Just one button, you just click it and everything from the picture is delivered to your door. Call it the panic button. And when the furniture comes, the delivery man hands you a cup of tea and assembles all the furniture for you, and then he gets down on his knees and gives you a blowjob. That's all I ask for.

I have a fantasy that I could pay someone to help us to choose the furniture. But professional interior designers cost like 50 euros an hour. This is beyond my budget of one euro an hour. I reckon maybe one of the homeless people on the street might be willing to work for one euro an hour but how much taste in decorating are they going to have really? They can't even hold their trousers up, let alone choose harmonious colours for a living room.

Girlfriend clicks on a link. The page is loading. The page is loading. The page is loading...