Imagine living in a world where assembling flat-pack furniture, like IKEA shelving, that sort of thing, is considered the highest form of pleasure and intimacy available to humans, or a dangerously alluring vice; either way, everyone’s kind of obsessed with it. At least a third of all artistic and literary endeavour throughout history has been about the joys and woes of assembling flat-pack furniture; people speculate about what kind of furnitures celebrities or their own neighbours like to assemble in private*; people talk about wanting to find their perfect furniture-assembly partner.
And the thing is, you’re attracted to furniture-assembly too, as a concept. You enjoy assembling small model kits by yourself, so you figure putting together a couch with someone has got to be the same kind of feeling, but even better. Except, every time you try it —- it feels like assembling furniture. At best it’s an exhausting chore; at worst it’s frustrating and actually, physically, painful, because the parts won’t go together the way the instructions claim they should. You try to at least take pleasure in how happy it makes the other person, but even that is compromised because you know if you make the slightest mistake they could hurt their back or something, so you can never relax.
And you’re a reasonably broad-minded person, so you consider the possibility that you’ve just been trying the wrong kinds of furniture for your tastes. You also know that some people aren’t into assembling furniture at all, and that’s ok, and maybe you’re one of them. Except you definitely like looking at furniture, sitting or lying on furniture, and reading furniture catalogues. You wish you could experience furniture-assembly the way other people do, but you suspect you never will.
*also anyone who actually makes their living assembling furniture in a factory or working in a furniture store is despised and reviled by society, for some reason.
Mooncustafer 