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 ) How would you rate your draft (feel free to create your own scale)?
-A 7.5 on the diabetes sugar test (3-5.5 is healthy). For I spent the entire draft fielding questions about whether or not I had Parkinsons Disease. Bull started it. Tom later leapt on with comparisons to Michael J. Fox, and so it goes. "One-Foot-in-the-grave Wilson," and all that. I was shakin worse than Jack White. The night before, rather than eating food, I arrived in The Big Apple and didn't take a bite, but instead immediately met the Commissioner in midtown. Then, instead of dinner, we went to Billymarks. The next morning, instead of inviting me to breakfast, the Commissioner instructed me to meet him back at Billymarks for a beer. Then I went to Long Island City and started drinking. In consequence, the early hours of the draft are a casserole of faint memories of sticking to a plan I never made while desperately trying to hold a jumping pen still and sign baseballs, like post-cirrhosis Mickey Mantle. In short, I don't think this was the draft that gave me Parkinsons. I think this was the draft that gave me Diabetes. And here's the thing…totally worth it. Instead, all that nerve-frayed shaking rounded up to my all-time-favorite draft roster. I haven't heard of 90% of my players. Who the hell is the wonderful and unstoppable Tim Anderson? Who drafted him? The shakes! That's who. And between having my best-performing pitching staff to date (two weeks in, anyway), despite not having drafted a pitcher early, I'm thrilled. This very well may be the fantasy draft equivalent of The Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant–in that nobody lays it out like a dying man.
+A 7.5 on the diabetes sugar test (3-5.5 is healthy). For I spent the entire draft fielding questions about whether or not I had Parkinsons Disease. Bull started it. Tom later leapt on with comparisons to Michael J. Fox, and so it goes. "One-Foot-in-the-grave Wilson," and all that. I was shakin worse than Jack White. The night before, rather than eating food, I arrived in The Big Apple and didn't take a bite, but instead immediately met the Commissioner in midtown. Then, instead of dinner, we went to Billymarks. The next morning, instead of inviting me to breakfast, the Commissioner instructed me to meet him back at Billymarks for a beer. Then I went to Long Island City and had more. In consequence, the early hours of the draft are a casserole of faint memories of sticking to a plan I never made while desperately trying to hold a jumping pen still and sign baseballs, like post-cirrhosis Mickey Mantle. In short, I don't think this was the draft that gave me Parkinsons. I think this was the draft that gave me Diabetes. And here's the thing…totally worth it. Instead, all that nerve-frayed shaking rounded up to my all-time-favorite draft roster. I haven't heard of 90% of my players. Who the hell is the wonderful and unstoppable Tim Anderson? Who drafted him? The shakes! That's who. And between having my best-performing pitching staff to date (two weeks in, anyway), despite not having drafted a pitcher early, I'm thrilled. This very well may be the fantasy draft equivalent of The Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant–in that nobody lays it out like a dying man.
 ) One pick you were stoked about, One you should have changed?