365 Days of not Caring that Michael Jackson Died

When I was five I had this dream that was so terrifying, that it’s stuck with me my entire life.  I don’t remember most of the specifics, but it ends with Michael Jackson, in werewolf form from the "Thriller" video, descending from my ceiling and attacking me.  I was so scared, that I ran into my mother’s room crying hysterically, begging her to let me sleep in her bed.  The next morning, I made her take down the two Michael Jackson posters I had on my wall and I stopped wearing the fake red leather jacket my Nana had bought me for my birthday.  I didn’t forgive the King of Pop for scaring the crap out of me when I was a kid, and now, a year after his death, I’m still totally unaffected for one simple reason: Michael Jackson didn’t like Jews. Michael Jackson could moonwalk, he could hire great lawyers to defend him against child molestation charges, and he could convince millions of people that saying things like "Jew me, sue me, kick me, kike me" was alright, and part of his art.  So that’s why today, on the first anniversary of his death, this article I’m writing is going to be the last thought I have on his passing or his legacy.