Clearly, IKEA was created by minions of the devil.
There is no other explanation.
First, they trap you in the maze; you enter and begin to browse, but you have to follow the designated path to get from point A to point B, lest you miss any of their fine, fine furniture and textiles. Oh there are "shortcuts" but those are always blocked by little old ladies on scooters with dead batteries, or groups of non-English speaking tourist who don't grasp "May I get by you, please?" Nor do they get, "Move you ass before I drop kick it."
So you walk. And you walk. And they tease you with blue signs with arrows that proclaim "THIS WAY TO SELF CHECKOUT," and since you're thinking "I damn well need to check my self out of here!" it's a welcome sign.
But alas, it only directs you deeper into the maze. Because without the maze, you might miss the fact that you can buy MALM chests of drawers in FOUR DIFFERENT SIZES! or 523 different brightly colored duvet covers!
Eventually, you realize you are almost there. You're waking through the warehouse of boxes, with the checkout registers RIGHT THERE, and you know that you'll be able to pay for your treasures and get the hell out.
Then you are tortured with the aroma of freshly baking cinnamon rolls. And your mouth begins to water. And you want one. So badly you want one.
But you're dedicated to losing weight.
But they smell so good.
So you do the only thing you possibly can. You pay for your stuff, step just beyond the cash register, drop to the floor, and curl up in a ball of quivering, hungry, dieting flesh, and then your head explodes, because they never intended to let you get out of there anyway.