Hangover Architecture

What I can reconstruct from Friday night at the Knaack: I got in, it was loud, I drank considerably more than was wise, and somewhere between the club and my apartment I acquired a Turkish pizza that I carried the entire journey home without once considering eating it.

What I apparently did when I got through the door was open a copy of Computer Arts to some random page lying on the clothes-buried floor, pull up a reference photo from the Cobrasnake, take half a pack of aspirin as prophylactic measure, and design a new layout for this journal. The results are what you’re looking at now, which in the unforgiving light of Sunday morning I’m genuinely ambivalent about.

It’s not finished—the subpages and comment sections still need adjusting—but I’m stopping here because my skull feels like it’s been filled with wet sand and I have a more urgent problem, which is hunger. Mini schnitzels with potato salad. Greasy food as hangover medicine, the one folk remedy that actually works. The Turkish pizza, for the record, is still sitting untouched on the counter.