Daily Itinerary of an Unassembled Piece of IKEA Furniture

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seen one adjustable lid rack or color-coded hand towel. Hell, I don’t even think there’s one kitchen drawer divider in this place. I take a few deep breaths and think of Swedish meatballs. I would kill for one right now.11:00 a.m. I refuse to rejoice in false hope when Sophia finally wakes up. I’ve learned the hard way that she stays in bed for the next half hour watching YouTube and compulsively changing her blog theme. No matter how many times Sophia changes the header font, her only view is always going to come from her grandmother, who accidentally clicked on the link Sophia sent to the family group chat, the poor girl.11:45 a.m. I feel Sophia’s guilty eyes on my unassembled self and concentrate on making her feel guiltier. A floppy screw here, limp piece of wood there. Lo and behold, it works like a charm. Sophia tweets a picture of me with a few flexed bicep emojis (right under a shady subtweet targeted directly at Evan) and blasts her workout music. It’s good to see that playlist being put to use for once.12:30 a.m. I fight to stay calm as Sophia Googles “how to read an IKEA instruction manual” and finds an IKEA meme page instead, the fool. I begin praying for an under-the-sink mesh slide-out drawer for the fifteenth time this week.1:00 p.m. I think happy thoughts — slotted interlock

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ing drawer organizers, Scrub Daddy sponges — as Sophia tries to figure out where to place the 4-mm hex screw. The right screw rolled under the mini-fridge five minutes ago when she took a break to microwave a burrito. I’m tired.3:00 p.m. Sophia’s “finished,” and there are still six pieces left.3:01 p.m. I am hideous.3:02 p.m. I really can’t even look at myself.3:15 p.m. I sigh in exasperation as Sophia calls her mom. “I mean, yeah, I messed up, but I just don’t know where I went wrong!” “Yes, I read the instructions!” “They sell cinnamon rolls?”3:20 p.m. Sophia hangs up to watch HGTV and begins adding things to her “Minimalistic Home Makeover” Pinterest board. I mean, I’m not here to judge, if that’s what she’s going for, then why does she have a bathrobe embroidered with chickens?4:00 p.m. Wait, what? Sophia’s making a “quick IKEA run” for a few extra pieces and a wrench? I cackle at the amateur because it’s obvious Quick IKEA runs don’t exist.9:00 p.m. Sophia returns with a new mattress, an adjustable lamp, and several lingonberry jam stains on her shirtfront. I begin planning to stage a coup with my new comrades. Hmm…I think I’ll start by liking one of Evan’s Instagram pictures. From 2004.</article></body>

Will I ever feel truly…complete?

6:00 a.m. I wake up bright and early on a Saturday morning, still in pieces despite the fact that Sophia — who hoped that I would sort out her quarter-life crisis — bought me two weeks ago. Tough luck, honey. At least the ball pits at Småland don’t drunk-text Evan three times in a row with winking cat emojis.

10:00 a.m. Sophia’s alarm goes off for the fifth time. When her screen lights up, I see that I’m listed under her to-do list as “build IKEA.” Bitch, please. I’m a state-of-the-art drop file storage unit with nine drawers. I hail from the majestic fjords of Sweden, and your mundane tongue couldn’t even pronounce my name without accidentally summoning a Nordic demon.

10:30 a.m. I try not to think about how I haven’t seen one adjustable lid rack or color-coded hand towel. Hell, I don’t even think there’s one kitchen drawer divider in this place. I take a few deep breaths and think of Swedish meatballs. I would kill for one right now.

11:00 a.m. I refuse to rejoice in false hope when Sophia finally wakes up. I’ve learned the hard way that she stays in bed for the next half hour watching YouTube and compulsively changing her blog theme. No matter how many times Sophia changes the header font, her only view is always going to come from her grandmother, who accidentally clicked on the link Sophia sent to the family group chat, the poor girl.

11:45 a.m. I feel Sophia’s guilty eyes on my unassembled self and concentrate on making her feel guiltier. A floppy screw here, limp piece of wood there. Lo and behold, it works like a charm. Sophia tweets a picture of me with a few flexed bicep emojis (right under a shady subtweet targeted directly at Evan) and blasts her workout music. It’s good to see that playlist being put to use for once.

12:30 a.m. I fight to stay calm as Sophia Googles “how to read an IKEA instruction manual” and finds an IKEA meme page instead, the fool. I begin praying for an under-the-sink mesh slide-out drawer for the fifteenth time this week.

1:00 p.m. I think happy thoughts — slotted interlocking drawer organizers, Scrub Daddy sponges — as Sophia tries to figure out where to place the 4-mm hex screw. The right screw rolled under the mini-fridge five minutes ago when she took a break to microwave a burrito. I’m tired.

3:00 p.m. Sophia’s “finished,” and there are still six pieces left.

3:01 p.m. I am hideous.

3:02 p.m. I really can’t even look at myself.

3:15 p.m. I sigh in exasperation as Sophia calls her mom. “I mean, yeah, I messed up, but I just don’t know where I went wrong!” “Yes, I read the instructions!” “They sell cinnamon rolls?”

3:20 p.m. Sophia hangs up to watch HGTV and begins adding things to her “Minimalistic Home Makeover” Pinterest board. I mean, I’m not here to judge, if that’s what she’s going for, then why does she have a bathrobe embroidered with chickens?

4:00 p.m. Wait, what? Sophia’s making a “quick IKEA run” for a few extra pieces and a wrench? I cackle at the amateur because it’s obvious Quick IKEA runs don’t exist.

9:00 p.m. Sophia returns with a new mattress, an adjustable lamp, and several lingonberry jam stains on her shirtfront. I begin planning to stage a coup with my new comrades. Hmm…I think I’ll start by liking one of Evan’s Instagram pictures. From 2004.