In the dreadful dream, paedophiles from all over the world had decided to come out of the closet because of the 2013 American Psychiatric Association (APA) classification.
No longer lurking in shrubs at the playground, they started luring unsuspecting children into their tinted window combies with promises of smart phones and portable Wi-Fi adaptors.
The horrifying part was not how they picked-off the children like apples from a tree, but what they wore.
Rather than wearing the scarlet letter P, they wore skinny jeans, pointy dress shoes and a hoody or dress shirt two times smaller than the right size. What made the entire look hard to bear was that they were obese.
I was devastated to say the least, I had just seen a shooting star and I made the wish that should paedophiles come out, they would choose some other uniform.
One of the celestial Greek gods out there saw this as an opportunity to mess with me and sent a wobbling Willy in the tightest skinny jeans ever made.
He would two-step, stop to pant and then wobble on, and instead of asking him if he needed any medical assistance, the thought of how he got into the skinny jeans consumed me.
Did they sew them onto him? Did someone give him the jeans as a baby and he grew into them, and he never took them off even for a wash?
The questions that flooded my mind seemed endless and I started feeling light-headed. With all the uncertainty about his skinny jeans, one thing was clear to me, he did not care about his family jewels.
True to form, a young child ran towards him, took hold of him and skipped down the tarred road as he breathlessly followed behind.
Everyone has become tired of hearing about all the things that we should have left in 2014, and I can understand that.
I was about to vow to never use the phrase again until this crime against skinny jeans revealed itself to me.
Do these men have wives, brothers, sisters, mirrors, nosy neighbours and hobos begging at the street corner or even those annoying taxi drivers?
Because unless they live in a vacuum, one of those people should be able to tell them to go to the ER, get those jeans cut off and find a pair of sweatpants.
I really hate appearing to be this know-it-all judgemental type of person, but damn it, you people force my hand.
Let it be known, that I will be running in the next presidential race so I can eliminate all these fashion faux pas, once and for all.
Under my rule, we will become a stylish nation, like the capital in The Hunger Games, and we will hang those in violation from the left arm until it comes off.
Yes, I will become a fashion dictator, but no need to thank me. I am doing this for our fashion wellbeing, because it’s the least I can do for my people.