Chocolates, Sparkles and a Bicycle Bell

Chocolates come from a recessive gene. Once, I wanted to automatically disregard Chocolates because Yellows and Blacks are dominant and make really good souls. I like people with Chocolates. Especially two very intelligent people that support my Black. My simple-cell brain says something like, "I have friends with Chocolates. I just choose not to have Chocolates." My evolved self says, "WTF are you thinking, you stupid white-faced, cancer-scaled, Recessive with your Blues and Blondes that your father left you?" Yes, I'm the only one! I got the recessive. I got the prize! Me, me! Golden hair, golden eyes, Goulding ticket!

I once had a purple wheelchair; I think I might have had two, and with the second one, I tried to add sparkles to really set me apart from everyone else. I remember thinking when I only had a tenth of a working brain that sparkles would do that for me. The two places that I can actually see on my wheelchair are where my knees lean, and the place where I grab a thousand times a day to fidget and pressure release. The sparkles wore off to a smooth chalky metal color in about a month. So, if I couldn't see the sparkles, did anyone else? From where I sit, the sparkle is gone.

Dana gave me a bicycle bell that I wanted to put on my chair when I thought a wheelchair was a novelty and I was all Rah Rah about being ok with sitting down through my best decades. It is silver and fits perfectly in my palm and the thumb ringer isn't too hard for me to push if it is secured to something. I loved it and several times a day I'd cha ching it. I said I wanted to mount it on my chair at the place my knees lean. And I might cha ching it in dark hallways, or at work as a hey, how are you today... but that was just creepy so I didn't ever mount it. It sits with my treasures. I keep it to remind me of how much I loved Dana.

I know I will never have Cherry Chocolates or Vanilla Chocolates or Dark Chocolates and I do not want anything with sparkles. I really do like Chocolates; I just don't have one and my pure Black is a perfect soul that gets me through the day-sweats when my Prince is surveying the kingdom. I'm no longer distracted by sparkles or think they make me any better or worse than I am. I am certainly not secure with where I sit, and I will never ring a bell that isn't on the verge of a trill anyway. I know the sum of the Golden rule and I know that what I put in my bucket is more valuable than how much spills over. Lately, I've tried to spin gold where I can and toss pennies for those who need a magical surprise at their feet.

I get it. 

But I am... changed, and I hate it. I'm trying to be ok with my snooze at five-, then six-o'clock to start a nasty three-hour routine that we keep tucked in our 3-ring binder titled: Your Life as a Paraplegic/Quadraplegic that we got at the hospital debrief. Danika-Up! You freaking whiny-ass!

And I think I might go crazy every day with regret. I hope that I have it in me to love bigger than what I have given because so far, it feels puny compared to what the Universe has put in my lap.