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And this is where my addiction to cheap, global corporate furniture all began. They tempt you with the funky faux Swedish flair, the lingonberries, and those spectacular showrooms upstairs, then they induce you into a spending frenzy with all those bins of home decor and stuff downstairs. Next, you find yourself signed up for an IKEA charge card and added a few hundred dollars (or more) to your debts, and for what? Boxes of screws, wood pieces, plastics, scented tea lights, and do-it-yourself instructions that make you - the customer! - become the furniture-maker, mover, and installer. And they don't even have to pay you minimum wage to do so! You have become a slave to this particularly devious mode of multinational sweatshop production, and your local artisans and furniture people have to close their studio workshops and work for the big blue-and-yellow box stores that now circle the globe. Damn you, Swedish meatballs manager's special! You got me good.
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