Allen Was Here

Ah, IKEA. My haven of safe, sterile, minimalist, hipster perfection. Everything is in its place, be it FLOORGEN, MALM, or DALSELV. That's why I'm always delighted to find little signs of the outside world creeping into the artistically arranged showrooms. People leaving their mark on a space that's supposed to be so generic.

Move aside, EKTORP! The name this chunk of IKEA belongs to is...





ALLEN!

Judging from the handwriting, this graffiti artist was either A) me or B)a seven-year-old boy. Seeing as my name isn't Allen, I've ruled myself out. I learned about detective work like this watching Law and Order. A LOT.

Beyond that, I found no clues. Allen, wherever you are, keep on truckin'. Er, scrawlin'.

GOD HATES SIGNS!

Hey everyone! Meet my new best friend! I wish he was, anyway. Anyone punking the hate factory that is Westboro Baptist Church has my blessing. There's no point in screaming at them, because those Phelps wackadoodles love the negative feedback. They eat it up with a spoon. But mockery? Always delightful.

Always.