IT'S THE CHRISTMAS SEASON

In my contract with life, whether single or in a relationship, there is in microscopic letters a passage that is entitled the spontaneity clause.

There is also a warning against abusing it which I do my best to respect since the consequences are significant, but I have permission, granted by some anonymous power, that if I want to go for it even if it's cocaine, marijuana, cigarettes, beer and wine until the sun rises, it is within my right to exercise this freedom.

It's the Christmas season.

I did and today I am so discombobulated that I feel like I'm sitting in a jail cell awaiting my execution. So much for freedom. Please lock me up before I do something stupid again. That coke could have easily been laced with fentanyl and I could be dead.

Is it only a matter of time before a Herald headline reads: NOTED WRITER AND PUNDIT DEAD AT 73 FROM OVERDOSE. Like Santa quietly exiting a home after he has left the gifts, I'm hoping for a more mundane exit.