I like the typical designer things I'm supposed to like. Artichoke lamps, barcelona chairs with sheepskins from Ikea slung just so across them. White on white on white rooms, with pops of ironic art, prints from etsy, glossy white pottery. Midcentury dressers, platform beds with carefully mixed but coordinating sheets, the sarrinenn pedestal table matched to a jumble of rustic thrift store chairs, bottles of pellegrino lined up on the counter top. They've got my pretentious, overly designed number.
Read mockery of the same at unhappy hipsters. Hilarious.
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