Sitting for hours on a yellow sofa in an Ikea store really makes you think about very important stuff. Add the "Are you going to buy that, miss? If not, please stand up, otherwise you're going to leave your ass print on the cushion." and you're ready to be mindfucked. Instead of just ♥-ing pictures of Big Ben I could actually go and see it. Of course, I'd be surrounded mostly by Asian tourists and I'd become a part of the background of a lot of photos... It's really not the ideal paparazzi fantasy.
Ever since I moved to mighty London, I've never set foot in a Starbucks cafe. Once I went to Costa. Their coffee is not that great, btw. I didn't bother visiting anything, actually. No museums, no Buckingham (long live the Queen!), no Madame Tussaud (too expensive), no touristic/masochistic attractions which appealed to me not so long ago. I'm always walking down the street with a destination attached to my legs, I don't socialize unless I have a hidden agenda (and it's a big one)... I don't write unless it's coursework, meaningful to my resume or a grocery list.
2012, I live in London, I can finally bake cakes, I have no idea what colour my hair will be next month, I can wear my PJs to uni without being judged (not that I'd do that) and many many things that I've only dreamed of. Then why am I feeling this constant pressure in my chest? Metaphorically, of course. A heart attack is so not what I need right now. I can't look ahead because I know there's nothing to see. Or maybe it's everything...
Damn you, Ikea and your colourful fuzzy couches!