I am a diseased man. It’s the truth, and I’ve learned to live with it. The fact of the matter is that I have been diagnosed with Raynaud’s Syndrome, a condition whose effects are somewhere in between AIDS and Motaba. As a consequence of this extremely super-serious medical condition, I have less-than-ideal circulation in my hands and feet.

In other words: I can’t feel my fucking hands in winter.

Don’t worry, I’m fine. To combat this terrible affliction, I (wear gloves and) look to sources of inspiration. For awhile I really admired Michael J. Fox, whose struggles with post-temporal-shifting have been highly publicized. Then I started looking up to Michael Jackson, a man who continued to do good in the world despite being bombarded by baseless accusations of child endangerment. But today, in the liquor store, I came across a new person to whom I can devote my allegiance.

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