Last night I dreamed about an orgy party featuring The Satorialist. It was weird.

I swear to Google, I’m a total workaholic. I hit the midnight superhighway with various tasks to better Fashion Indie and bring you, our faithful readers, a little more of the best content we can find. Lately though, my work has been breaching my waking hours and invading my dreams.

Case in point, the Satorialist orgy party that I dreamed about last night. Here’s how it went down…

For some reason, it was 1971. I think that’s because that number has been in my head since seeing the new collection of Reiss denim which surprisingly is called, 1971. We were at someones house, I’m thinking it was the home Maryanne lived in when Tara first met her, some crazy mansion that was featured in True Blood that sort of looks like a Southern Plantation Era mansion ala Gone With The Wind. Anyways, there’s a party and The Satorialist dude, Scott Schuman is there, except he isn’t taking pictures of peoples style, he’s taking pictures of them nude, oh wait, did I mention that everyone was naked, cause they were. (I definitely watch too much True Blood).

Anyways, Scott was running around the party in a pair of Calvin Klein tighties, telling everyone he’s the next Terry Richardson and trying to convince people he’s good he is in bed. It would be creepy that this is what I dream about, except he has been saying exactly that in interviews lately, so I’m not just making this shit up, he really believes he’s good in bed (until I hear reports from Garance though, this is still a fact to be checked. That’s just good journalism folks.).

While this scene is unfolding I find myself in a bubbling hot tub with Becks, talking about the difference between Butterscotch, Carmel and Dolce de Leche (yes, I’m a total foodict in my dreams as well). Becks thinks they are all the same, I know they are completely different. We continue on our battle as Scott makes his way over. We fail to notice his approach cause he’s barely breaking 2 feet!!! (I know that’s not his real height, he’s got to at least be a few inches taller.) He then starts kicking water in our faces to get our attention.

When I finally carry my glaze over to him his head is doing that crazy thing Saddam Hussein’s head does in South Park. Actually, he kind of sounds like Saddam in South Park as well, high-pitched and screaming. He asks to take our picture. I don’t take pictures so I kindly refuse. He then asks again. I once again refuse.

He then starts snapping away. I become annoyed, not because this is bothering me, but because Becks still isn’t convinced that carmel is very different from butterscotch. I step out of the pool and realize that I’m not nude at all, but instead I’m wearing a Superman costume (which even in my dreams is not so flattering) and I have a camera around my neck. I counteract Scott’s attacks by snapping photos of him, each shot makes him taller, while each one he takes of me makes me shorter. After a few shots, he’s about 100 feet and I’m the size of a garden gnome, still shooting, still shrinking. The Satorialist takes one last shot and I’m the size of an ant. Scott then takes a step forward and his gimorngous foot comes down at me. I SCREAM and wake up, in a chilled sweat, freaking the flip out.

Don’t know what any of this means, but I’m definitely gonna spend less time scouting style blogs and more time talking to my therapist (his name is Jack Daniels and he often consults with his colleague Mike who makes a mean Lemonade). Any thoughts?!?