/lit/ - Literature

Pretty unrelated but do you guys know any good interior design magazines/blogs?

Been interested in redecorating my apartment, need some ideas and cheaper solutions.
Like, tasteful artisan shit. Is there an avant-garde for room design? Interested a sleek, industrial (as in Apple, Braun, etc.) aesthetic, probably fairly minimalistic with one or two key artworks. Definitely a houseplant. Vaguely like this picture?
Anyone know any sites?

Mind if I post something of my own here? Shareed it earlier but only really got one relevant responses, which I appreciated. I'm about to leave but I'll try to read and critique your poem in a couple hours.

WE ARE IN A DIM DORM DECORATED
WITH COLLECTED HEINEKENS AND PULP
FICTION POSTERS. THE RESIDENTS
ARE CODDLED IN A CORNER, SEEKING
THE WARMTH OF A LAVA LAMP.
THEY MUTTER BETWEEN EACH OTHER CARBON
PRODUCTION AND EASTERN HISTORY IN A
DESPERATE ADDERALL FUELED REVIEW.
WITH A DULL THUD THE ROOM IS FLOODED WITH LIGHT,
THE SOPHOMORE RAISE THEIR HANDS IN DEFENSE,
IN TERROR AND AWE.
THE MACBOOK IS RAISED INTO THE ROOM,
LOOMING OVER THE COLD CHILDREN,
AN ILLUMINATED AND GLOWING
ON SCREEN OBAMA BECKONS TO
THEM, WHO CAUTIOUSLY APPROACH.
DRENCHED IN A WARM SLUDGE,
WHITE SPOTS BOIL IN FRONT OF THEIR EYES
AND THEY FALL OVER IN CONVULSING EMBRACE.

The hall is filled with bureaucrats and tourists, our countrymen expressing muffled excitement, waiting for the public appearance of America's Next Greatest President.
His eyes slowly scan the stadium as he's lowered on stage. Obama lands behind the podium, the crowd is silent. He addresses the nation:
"My body is falling apart, my system is failing, I do not understand what's happening but I think I am dying. Blood drips from under my nails and a hot metal mixes in my spit. I can feel my eyes sinking and my gums dying. My arms have whittled down to pink meat, sensitive like an open wound. America, please help."
The mob is sent into a wild uproar, slogan signs are set on fire and beer bottles are thrown. Everyone is cheering, puking, bleeding. Young girls are chased out the exit by giddy rioters, reporters followed by cameras rush for fresh angles.

Obama leaves the stage, now a thick black puddle swept up by the janitor.