I Built an IKEA Bookshelf and Now I Understand Why People Become Hermits

I bought an IKEA bookshelf. It was $49. It came in a flat box that was somehow both too big to fit in my car and too small to contain the amount of suffering I was about to experience. This box contained my weekend. My dignity. My will to live.

The box weighed approximately 80 pounds. I carried it up three flights of stairs. By the time I got to my apartment, I had already decided that the bookshelf and I were enemies. I was right. I was so right. I have never been more right about anything in my life.

Step 1: Open the Box (Mistake)

I opened the box. Inside was a piece of paper that IKEA calls "instructions" but should really be called "a series of hieroglyphics designed to make you question your intelligence and your worth as a human being." The instructions had no words. Just pictures. Little stick figures doing things that made no fucking sense. A stick figure holding a screw. A stick figure turning a screw. A stick figure looking at another stick figure with what I can only assume is contempt. The stick figures are judging you. They know you're going to fuck this up.

There were also approximately 47 extra screws. I counted. I don't know why there are 47 extra screws. I don't know if they're extra or if I'm missing something crucial. The instructions don't say. The instructions don't say anything. The instructions are just pictures of stick figures laughing at me. I am going to die with 47 extra screws and a crooked bookshelf and that's just my legacy now.

Step 2: The Allen Wrench (Torture Device)

IKEA gives you an Allen wrench. This is not a tool. This is a torture device designed by someone who hates you personally. It's a tiny piece of metal shaped like an L that is physically engineered to hurt your hands. After turning it 47 times, your fingers will cramp up and you will start to question every life choice that led you to this moment. You will think about your ex. You will think about your career. You will think about the fact that you are sitting on the floor of your apartment at 11 PM on a Saturday, assembling furniture for a life you're not even sure you want.

I have since learned that you can buy a power drill attachment for IKEA furniture. This is a lie. This is a scam. IKEA wants you to suffer. The Allen wrench is part of the experience. The suffering is the point. If you use a power drill, you are cheating and the ghost of Ingvar Kamprad will haunt you.

I spent two hours building this bookshelf. Two hours of my life that I will never get back. Two hours of turning a tiny metal L-shaped key while sitting on my floor, surrounded by particle board and existential dread. At one point I just sat there, holding the Allen wrench, staring at the wall, wondering if this is what my life has become. I cried a little. Not a lot. Just enough to wet the particle board. Which is probably not good for the structural integrity of the shelf. But at this point, I don't care. Let it fall. Let it all fall.

Step 3: The Moment of Truth (It's Crooked)

After two hours, 47 extra screws, three panic attacks, one near-breakdown, and a small amount of crying, I had assembled the bookshelf. It was standing. It was upright. It was... slightly crooked.

Not a lot. Just a little. Just enough that you can see it if you look at it from the right angle. Which is every angle. Because I will always see it. I will always know. Every time I walk into my living room, I will see that bookshelf and I will remember my failure. Every time I have guests over, I will watch their eyes drift to the crooked shelf and I will know that they know. They know I'm a failure. The shelf tells them.

I could fix it. I could take it apart and rebuild it. But I won't. Because I have accepted that this is my life now. I am a person with a slightly crooked IKEA bookshelf. This is who I am. This is who I will always be. The crooked shelf is my cross to bear.

The Verdict

The bookshelf holds books. That's about all I can say for it. It's particle board held together by hopes, dreams, and 47 extra screws. It will probably collapse in six months and take my TV with it. But for now, it stands. Crooked, but standing. Like me. Like all of us. Like the broken, beautiful disasters we are.

If you're thinking about buying IKEA furniture: don't. Just stack your books on the floor. It's cheaper. It's easier. It's more honest. And you won't have to spend two hours with an Allen wrench questioning your entire existence while crying into particle board.