Tomorrow morning is jaw surgery day, when the elderly jaw surgeon (evidently that is a thing here, completely separate from other surgeons because they have a different financing) is supposed to inject me with a neurotoxin in my head and then drill a hole in my head and, if I live long enough, screw a bit of titanium into my head. OK, not the top of my head, but I still feel extremely uncomfortable about this thing. On the other hand, leaving a nest of anaerobic bacteria indefinitely in my head is not really woohoo either. So here we go. Probably. Unless something gets in the way again. Like the three previous times.

One good thing about that is that each time it is delayed, I am a bit less sure that I am going to die from the procedure, right there and then. (This is good because it reduces the chance that I am frightened to death, which is a real thing.) The first time I felt like I was on death row, the second time I though maybe there was chance of survival. Now I think my chance of survival is about 99%. I have looked around the Net for horror stories but they are surprisingly few and far between, and mostly amount to the fake tooth failing to take root. Even so, just because it works for humans does not mean it works for me. Between my red hair, autism and Neanderthal genes, drugs tend to affect me in unpredictable ways. (I mean legal drugs, not intentionally unpredictable drugs.)

So if you never hear from me again that is probably the reason. Or I got run over by a car while trying to reach an Ingress portal. Or choked on a piece of chocolate. But if it is tomorrow, then probably this.