Look at my hands. They look like they belong in a Mark Twain novel, gnarled roots by the river banks, knotting this way and that. My left pinky juts out at an awkward angle from the rest of the hand and is not happy about being forced to type at 12:17 in the afternoon. It's swollen and thinks that this is a good enough reason to lie around moping. The feet are in rebellion too, and it seems that no combination of ginger tea and steroids is going to work them out of their funk. And don't get me started on the knees and elbows...
Dang this weather! Dang this weather!
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