A Carrot’s Destiny

After visiting my mother, who is apparently on a health food kick, I recently have been pondering the following question:

If I was a vegetable, like a carrot, would I feel cheated out of my destiny if I was processed in a juicer and served as a drink?

I can imagine a Nantes Coreless yelling, “I’m a carrot! I’m crunchy! Bite me, don’t sip me!”

This is not an easy question. Carrot juice is incredibly sweet. My mother gave me a cup or two, and it was so sweet it felt wrong and unhealthful drinking such huge quantities. I had to remind myself that it’s vegetable juice, no worse than V8 or eating a bag of carrots. But that’s just the point, isn’t it? From the carrot’s point of view, I have essentially taken his essence, his nutrients, and disregarded all the fiber, all the pulp. I’ve taken what I’ve wanted, and left his other parts. I’ve consumed him on my terms. It was not symbiosis, but parasitism. I loved him, conditionally.


As a carrot, I would have no destiny; I’m just a long orange taproot. But I’m a man, and I just might have a destiny. I might have a destiny, and I would like to think that whatever and whomever my destiny included, that it would include all parts of me, good and bad. I would not want a juicer destiny!

I would want my destiny, my all-powerful purpose in life, to include everything that makes me “me.” I would want my destiny to embrace my impatience and my boorishness and my insecurity. I would want my destiny to welcome my pathetic skills in geography, math, and science. I would want my destiny to welcome me unconditionally, like a soul mate welcomes its other half. I would want those things, but when my euphoria wears off, I don’t believe in destiny.

On my happier days, I guess I do believe in destiny, but perhaps I’m only happy because I’m doped-up on a fantasy. Destiny is an opiate for my all-too-realistic life.

I always think of Lt. Dan from Forrest Gump. He blamed Forrest for cheating him out of his destiny of dying on the battlefield. Now we all know Lt. Dan went on to get married and have a better life, essentially spitting the face of his destiny, but I know I’m not that lucky. I am not a movie character; my life doesn’t fit into 2-hour chunks. I would love to have a destiny, but I probably don’t have one. I’m just a carrot, waiting for my eventual juicing, my eventual conditional and parasitic "destiny."

Sometimes I pretend though: Maybe a carrot does have a destiny. Maybe I should envy the carrot. Does he not want to be in a fancy salad at Morton’s? Does he not want to be sautéed in extra virgin olive oil? Doesn’t he dream of being that iconic carrot Bugs Bunny nibbles in the all those cartoons? I’d like to think so.

I guess I do envy the carrot. The carrot has endpoints: finite points in a nihilist infinity. My destiny seems more uncertain, more elusive, and, in all likelihood, more fictional.