Did you ever get that feeling of waking up dislexic when it is very very important for you not to be? I did, this morning. Next I had that feeling where you go to use your backup plan and find you left it locked to the bicycle rack in work and you have to ride a piece of junk to get on top. Except it wasn’t exactly that feeling either. There was also an underlying sense of coughing and spluttering with the “flu” for fifteen minutes while pumping my legs against that aforementioned painfully resistent piece of junk. Lastly there was the irritating impression at the back of my mind that YOU were lying there snug in your bed, while in fact this was probably all your fault (did you have a cold recently? At the very least it was you who gave me this cold you know), and that even when I complain about it you would probably play the air violin and mockingly rub your finger under your eye, wiping away invisible tears. Even the invisible tears have no sympathy. The very essence of nothingness has no sympathy for me never mind anything real, leaving me without even the imaginary pretence that you care. I’ve never even suffered from dislexia before. Why just this once, when it mattered? The only explanation is that it is a form of devine vengeance for failing to prove God’s existence to QMonkey.