Fu(rni)ture

I do not want furniture anymore.
And when I say "no furniture," I don't mean I'll live with a janky futon. Don't get me wrong, futon-lovers. I like the idea of it bunching up and memorizing the contour of my dreadlocks and clay-beaded hemp ankle-bracelet. It would match the milk crates I use as chairs and the Greatful Dead stubs that prop up my soul.

No, this isn't faux-hippie or anti-consumerist Anne talking, nor is it my asceticism. I'm simply unable to find The Perfect Furniture For Me. And this is why:

I like IKEA as much as the next guy whose Billy bookcase screams "I'm not in the mood!" whenever I touch it. IKEA is affordable and convenient. Clean lines, fun to assemble (yes, I said "fun") and frankly, where I am financially.

However, at this juncture I can sort of entertain the idea of something a little more special. And yet if I talk to a real furniture dealer they'll always correct my pronunciation of Eames (it rhymes with "douchebag"), and though technically I could splurge some (a friend made a great point that I could think of this investment as what I'd spend on a car if I lived in LA), something dies inside me every time I look at the price tags. Then I go back to Billy but he still won't let me touch him.

What's a girl to do?

I have a feeling asylums are padded with the detritus of furniture.