Bucket of Fried Destiny

What is destiny but a series of choices? When Fate rudely presses our spirit against a metaphorical wall, a wall likely made of brick if said wall was of the literal variety, we find ourselves faced with two options: Do we fight or take flight?

Which is the correct response? Could it be neither? Both choices could theoretically lead to our demise, or triumph. Is the decision then moot? Does destiny mock us with its pseudo-freedom given to us, that freedom which we gleefully take and label as free will?

Yet is it only destiny that employs this limited means of portraying an illusion of choice? Or can we find such a paradigm in other complex systems of our lives?

If destiny is the giver of outcome masquerading as a choice, then I submit to you that Colonel Sanders is destiny in human form. Is it not he that first put forth the seemingly all-important question, “Original or Extra-Crispy”? Years have I spent eating fried chicken, though one may not draw such a conclusion upon observation of my physique, and with every breast I held so tenderly, tasted so sensitively, the decision lingered over my head like a prowling Hungarian cougar lingers over its most recent kill. What would my life have become had I chose Extra Crispy over Original? What if I chose to fight the cashier who refused to honor my perfectly valid, though expired, coupon for $2 off, instead of running away, taking flight like a cowering sissy boy from some British province, at the first threat of beckoning local authorities?

Even in my career I am faced with two options, choices that would undoubtedly have similar outcomes. Am I a geneticist? Or am I a taxi driver? Both paths put me in a dangerous position, each offers only death as its ultimate reward, just as the fried chicken.

“Look, Mohinder,” asserted Bob, the man I’ve wittingly dubbed “Goldilocks” outside his awareness. “I’m going to stop having these business lunches with you if you’re going to philosophize the entire time. It’s just chicken.” He waved his drumstick at me with a wristful flourish. Its material metamorphosed into a gold, and he tossed the shiny, fried poultry appendage upon the table. “And now it’s golden chicken.”

Golden and extra crispy. Was it destiny that guided his decision? Why did I choose Original for myself, while Goldilocks chose Extra Crispy? Is it merely the difference between Good and Evil? And if so, which did I order?

“Mohinder!”

“Apologies, Mr. Goldilocks. It seems I was lost, irrevocably befuddled, one might say, in thought, trapped in some kind of proverbial marsh of cognitive fog…”

“Just eat your chicken! You only have an hour for lunch, you know?”

And consume that fowlness I did. Though as my stomach digested the now incredibly expensive drumstick, my mind continued its digestion of destiny. Who makes the choice? What decides if we fight or if we take flight?

“Here’s your plane ticket to Louisiana,” Goldilocks blustered. “Enjoy your flight.”