Fuck You, Sweden, And Your Fucking Bookcase.

Ok, so right now I hate an entirely pleasant country and I know that's irrational, but still. If the two of you who have been to my house in the last two years remember, there has been a tall, skinny cardboard box leaning against the wall pretty much since I moved in, right? It's the bookcase I bought for all the books that are in my bottom two dresser drawers instead of clothes. All my clothes are in the laundry basket getting wrinkled right where I can see them and find them. Anyway.

I opened that fucking box tonight.

First, I couldn't find the instructions. Then as I get set with the drill charging (I know the directions always say you don't need a drill to tighten the screws, but fuck Sweden. You need a drill.) and my hammer at the ready (yes, I own tools that aren't sexual in nature.), I take a good look at the shelves themselves to make sure I'm using the correct ones first, I realize that half of them are fucking fucked up. The pre-drilled holes are all in the fucking wrong places, and not only are they not in the right fucking places, they're half off the edges. So instead of a fucking round hole in the wrong place (0), there's a bunch of fucking half-circles (c) off the edges of four fucking shelves. Fuck these fucking Swedish shelves. What the fuck does Ikea even mean?

Fuck their fucking cinnamon rolls and their fucking 90 day return policy. And fuck putting all the fucking furniture back where it was. I WANT that lamp in the middle of the fucking floor. The only thing I'm going to put back is my CD player. It can sit on the fucking floor just like fucking college for all I care.

This never would have fucking happened at the New Yankee Workshop. Support public television now!

Besides the monumental bookshelf fuck-up of '07, I have other interesting things to speak of, but now I don't want to. After all this time, it feels weird to talk about it, even though it's like the reason ReadBecca exists. I guess the only thing I want to say is that St. Patrick's Day is no longer the anniversary of anything. Except that time Michele ordered seven Jell-o shots. To go.