Gucci Dreams

Whenever I’m feeling stressed out/overwhelmed/bloated/bored, or La Scala is closed, I like to take a lucid dream nap in order to imagine myself as a different Babe. A fantasy Babe. Normally this involves me sleeping for 5 minutes to an hour, and projecting myself into certain situations where I’m wearing certain clothes and fucking a certain star from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?. It’s invigorating, it’s therapeutic, and it’s much less destructive to the liver than a martini/Xanax combo, (even though I usually throw those in the mix as well at some point before or after said lucid dream sesh). It’s how I stay centered. Deal with it.

I woke up this morning (1pm), looked through the Spring ’13 Gucci show on Style.com, and decided to immediately go back to sleep so I could dream myself into the clothes. I needed to feel them against my skin, and who knows when Moda Operandi will have the collection available for pre-order? I mean, it could be days, or worse…weeks. Anyways, here’s what happened in my dream:

It was 1969.

I was living in Miami, working as a secretary/part-time model.

It wasn’t chic, but I was thin and making it work.

One night I went to a party, where I met this super coked-out (but hot) guy. We danced. I acted like I was totally over it. He was obsessed.

We had dinner on his yacht. He asked me to marry him.

I said yes.

For awhile, it was chic. We lived in a mansion, and threw parties all the time.

And did coke sometimes.

And bought a pet tiger.

But one day, I realized that my husband was doing too much coke, and might have even been a coke dealer/drug lord (which is not chic) but could explain lots of things, like why he flew to South America five times a year. So I visited a divorce lawyer.

Then we separated. It was difficult, but I eventually got all his money.

And the yacht.

Then I moved to Croatia and lived out the 70’s as a jet-setting millionairess.

Then I woke up at 4pm, feeling extremely refreshed and ready to take on the day.

LOVE YOU. MEAN IT.
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