Entrepreneur? I’m Acquiring an IKEA Through Squatter’s Rights

Sorry I’ve been missing for so long. My Snapchat is a ghost town. My Facebook, empty. I even have yet to post a Receiptify of my mediocre song selections. All because there’s no damn cell reception in this brick-laid mausoleum. I’ve made 540 attempts to crack the wifi passcode. There are 200 billion total combinations in an 8-character password. I need more hands. Soon, I will be going dark in this IKEA courtesy of the European wall outlets. 

I haven’t seen the sunlight in about three weeks. My pale skin has blended with the milky TOFTERYD coffee tables surrounding me. I sleep 18 hours a day to keep in rhythm with opening hours. My stomach has embraced Scandinavia and all its wonders. Do I fast from 9am to 10pm? Yes. Do I also feast on Swedish meatballs and salmon filets courtesy of the cafeteria freezer offerings? Yes. My unregulated access to state-of-the-art appliances is all a cook needs (besides a working gas line). I can kick back in the living room furniture showroom with a fake fireplace and its whispering embers. Who needs human interaction when one has the company of the SONGESAND bedroom furniture set?

When I embarked on my squatter’s mission, doubters told me: “Kyle, this is insane” or “You know the Supreme Court will never grant you the property rights to an IKEA.” But my journey is already five percent finished. What would my legacy be if I were to quit now? Look at all the famous swedes and the challenges they experienced. Greta Thunberg faced backlash from across the globe, Swedish House Mafia peaked in 2012, Pewdiepie’s Youtube videos were demonetized and Johan August Meijerfeldt (the elder) was forced to leave Pomerania briefly after the fall of Stralsund. My residential rebellion against IKEA is more than a mere attempt at lining my pockets; it will be a symbolic victory against the plight of capitalism and particleboard.

However, not all is rosy in the land of blue and yellow. Days drift by in solitude. Swedish background music gives no solace, only gentle melodies. My life is the reincarnation of Theseus and the Minotaur, locked in a limbic struggle as I evade the janitor through bleached halls. Some afternoons are spent in the KLEPPSTAD Wardrobe with three doors. Other times, I reside in the warehouse rafters, a cool breeze drifting through the metal racks. I yearn to join the families roaming about the store looking to furnish their homes with Swedish appliances, but I must hold my breath for fear of discovery. People wonder what solitary confinement is like. Have them spend a week in an IKEA warehouse. 

Is there a monetary value for the freedom I have sacrificed? Philosophers would say such endeavors are pointless, and that placing a value on time would be antithetical to the principle of life. Well, philosophers are stupid. An IKEA is worth ~90 million dollars. If I stay here for the necessary seven years or 2555 days or 3679200 minutes, my squatter’s rights will kick in and I will make over $24 for each minute of my investment. The philosophers’ stupid arguments are no match for my vast real estate knowledge. My blood, sweat, tears and likely long-term spinal damage from cramming myself into a TV console will build generational wealth for my descendants. All while I enjoy the finest of Swedish culture and craftsmanship. 

This is no showroom. This is a show home. In 6 years and 240 days, this IKEA will belong to me.