Chocolate happens to be the root of all good things

I’m sitting here at my writing desk looking for inspiration in the tiny ball chocolates wrapped in tinfoil that were left over from the annual Easter egg hunt held here almost a month ago.
Perhaps I should clarify and ’fess up. The chocolates weren’t exactly “leftovers.” I stashed a few (okay, maybe more) handfuls of them in the cupboard just for me—and up high enough that one had to stand on a chair to reach them.
And just the other day, I also found a few wayward plastic eggs strewn about the farm yard still with chocolates balls inside. The grandchildren missed these when they were running around that day like the break in a pool game—bouncing off bushes and tree stumps in search of sweet treasures.
I ate all the contents of those eggs, too—even the contents of the one I found splayed open on the ground. So what if the tinfoil was muddy? The chocolate inside of that was perfectly fine.
It wasn’t until I popped it in my mouth and bit into it did I wonder if my resident nemesis squirrel purposely had opened the egg, taken the chocolate ball out, rolled it around in the dirt, and put it back—just to spite me—knowing full well that I would eat it anyway.
Let’s face it. Chocolate fixes everything (always has, always will) and it certainly is making it easier for me to tolerate the dragging carcass of cool weather that I liken to Chinese water torture—slow and relentless.
I keep trying to pack away my wool sweaters but they just won’t let go. I’ve gone so far as to have a “Yosemite Sam” temper tantrum that involved stomping my woollies flat under my feet before I throwing them fitfully down the stairs to the basement—only to look down and see the big sweater dragging itself back up the stairs as I scolded it like a small child for even thinking I would wear it again before next December.
Maybe if I eat more chocolate, warmer weather will come quicker.
The trouble is, now I have a fiancée who is an equally-enamored chocoholic and the proportions of said “fixer of all my problems” isn’t as big as it used to be.
Does this mean I have to share? Doesn’t he know how much chocolate is required by the “love of his life” in order to keep the peace?
Come to think of it, does he even know how much I like to eat and that I’ve been known to consume (albeit not all at once) a whole pizza by myself, a box of Kraft Dinner, all four servings of chocolate pudding, or vacuum up a large bag of potato chips and a vat of sour cream in between TV commercials?
Oh no. Does this mean I have to share the TV remote, too?
This is definitely going to require more chocolate on my half of the coffee table.