Genetics

Sometimes I absolutely detest genetics.  If we have to cope with genetics, why can't we pick and choose which ones we will be blessed with?  If I was going to have the genetics of either one of my maternal grandparents, why couldn't it have been Grandma's?  Her quiet, gentle nature.  Her loving  tenderness.

Was it really that important to pick up the depression, the anger, the moodiness?  Did I need those genetics to make me who I am?  Wouldn't it have been better for this old world if I had been blessed with grandma's nature?  Did the world really need another depressed, angry, moody person?  Was sarcasm and meanness in short supply in October 1960?

I don't know what genetics I acquired from my dad, or his family.  Maybe I should be blaming him, if we can actually blame the bearers of genetics.  Someone told my mom that if you have a blood transfusion, it changes your genetic make up.  STICK ME A NEEDLE AND DRAIN THIS BLOOD! Ah, I know that isn't true, but what if it were so?  I might get something worse than what I deal with everyday.

Genetics are genetics, and glorious in so many ways.  After all, who doesn't love to look into the mirror and see those droopy eyes, the frown that thrives on the unsuspecting face?  You tell yourself today you will overcome the genetics that make you who you are, and then, and then, well...and then you don't.