Listen up, San Antonio, because the temperature hit 55° and I decided to weaponize the entire brown crayon box like a stylish serial killer.
I’m out here serving “your dad but make it fashion” in a vintage suede bomber so buttery it could sue the cow for emotional damages, a cashmere turtleneck that whispers “I summer in Tuscany and winter in your ex’s regrets,” corduroys wide enough to smuggle Whataburgers, and shell-cordovan boots AE shiny enough to blind the haters (population: everyone who isn’t me right now).
Then, because restraint is for amateurs, I slapped on the 52 mm Invicta Venom Reserve like, “Yeah, I brought a dinner plate to a wrist party, what about it?” and finished with enough Vince Camuto Terra to make the entire block smell like a luxury lumberjack who moonlights as a cologne bottle.
I’m not just wearing brown monochrome, baby. I’m the boss, and the sun is paying me rent just to shine on this fit. Bow down, peasants.