The vagaries of IKEA

Anyone who knows me should probably know that one of my favourite places in the world is IKEA. I love the boxes. I love the way that everything goes cleverly with everything else. I love the fact that everything is labelled and indexed, leaving no room for confusion. I love the idea that with enough purchases, my life could stop being one endless search for keys/bobby pins/bank statements/meaning and instead be a luxurious and enjoyable wander through various stages of the day - cooking, studying, dressing, entertaining, travelling, etc.
Going to IKEA tends to make me feel pretty relaxed. I just like looking at all the pretty things. I find it soothing. And reassauring. I like telling myself that, one day, in the imaginary future, sometime around the time I become a respected actor and find myself in a loving and stable relationship and capable of paying bills on time, my house too will be a series of clean lines and well ordered magazines; extensive bookshelves and interesting art; comfortable couches and a wellstocked kitchen; clothes on hangers instead of my floor, and all the associated glory that comes with said.
However, after spending four hours in the place yesterday, surrounded by boxes of all shapes and colours, I think my passion has temporarily faded. For one thing, the whole reason I went to IKEA was to buy a desk. I knew which desk I wanted. (My next favourite thing to visiting IKEA is reading the catologue.) I went to the desk section. Damn desk is sold out. I mean, when does IKEA sell out of anything? Most discouraging. Then I bought a bedside table, and a lot of boxes, the uses of which are contingent on me building this bookshelf that I bought from IKEA sometime just after I came home - September probably. The bookshelf IN ITSELF is a WHOLE SEPERATE ISSUE (why did I get it in dark brown when everything else in my room is a pale beech colour???). And currently my room is just knee deep in boxes, packed and unpacked, of clothes that need to be altered, bookshelves that need to be created, photos that need to be stored and such a dazzling array of miscellaneous paperwork I hardly know what to do with myself.
The chasm (I think this is my new favourite word) between my dream home (compartmentalised) and the reality (shit spewing out of drawers and cupboards as though it were genetically mutated and trying to take over the world) is so depressing as to actually make me simply want to crawl into bed (IKEA sheets, naturally) surrounded by a pile of junk, and just...disappear.