Trash Aesthetics on a Hungover Sunday

Mona slid leftover Kosmos fries into the microwave while I ate cheap Lidl spaghetti straight from the pot, trying to line my stomach, season three of The O.C. murmuring in the background. My skull was throbbing. And I couldn’t shake what I’d started calling the Amy Winehouse feeling—that very specific cocktail of indifference, grogginess, arrogance, and the faint hallucination of being higher than you actually are. Somewhere inside that state, I gave this journal a third column.

Trash is more interesting to me right now than anything polished. Maybe that’s just where I’m at, or maybe trash has genuinely better bones—the tension between cheap and refined is where real design lives anyway. Going to get muesli and watch The Simpsons.