If you hear it then you're suddenly on to Ikea. More specifically the self.
You know this place or sought after 15 minutes of clean cutlery and glasses you are asked if you want to jam with your balls and if you prefer magma of greenish spinach or fries and cold soft .
So I ate there that Saturday afternoon and, knowing how their meatballs are done, I find it somewhat pretentious to give the title of "chef" ; a guy who is content to put meatballs in the microwave and rehydrate sachets of powder with the cream off with water.
short I went to Ikea, me! While I hate Ikea.
For me it is the temple of her pregnant molasse open circles paths (because the pretext that they have a bun in their drawer stretch marks they have the right to annoy the world) on the old scented makeup on, on rude and snotty braillers and braille a slap on the spot.
Yes Ikea'm getting through the eyes, all this world which shakes and guns to be the first to the all-new assortment of dishes grrrükefülke or paper napkins with nicks reindeer badly drawn above, I see scares me anxious.
You spend hours in a store, watching everything and anything, to consider a new table while yours is only one year, to make you shoving, and more to give yours up to the cashier to let those above, waiting on Saturday (when they are on leave and maternity have nothing else to fuck the week), only day off you have to make their purchases.
Yes when I come back from Ikea I also hate, pregnant women, elderly people (but that's a bit all the time) and children.
Ikea is hell ...
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