Welp, I’ve reached the tail of my tale and what’s left for me to say, o patient reader? Oh I get it, you want the know on whether I climbed onto the back of that glider or not.
Now, if I told you I joined The Resistance because I thought it was the right thing to do or because a sense of justice compelled me, you’d buy that, right? That would be a sensible end to this story.
And complete bunk.
I can only hope to adequately explain my actions by posing this scenario to you: You’re eight days shy of your 15th annibirthary and you’re stuck at twos-and-two with a terminal case of ennui when this badass, raven-holoed goddess shakes some actual living into your so-called life and shows you the whole kuffing world you’ve been missing. And all she asks you for in return is . . . your whole life.
What would you do?
The Simple Answer (i.e. the truth): If I climbed onto that seat it was because of a femmy, that’s all. A femmy named Cheza Gregory. A smart stud doesn’t get on that bike. But I already told you, I was pretty dull when I was 15.
Weren’t we all?
They tell you that who you are and your path in life consists of the choices you make. What they don’t tell you, though, is that it’s not really the path that gets forged by your choices, it’s the pathfinder. And get this, the individual choices you make, good or bad, don’t really matter that much at all. The only thing that really matters is that you made them. You did something. So it doesn’t matter whether I jumped on that glider with Cheza and did the happily ever after. Or maybe I told her to get bent and went back to Fairchild.
Doesn’t really matter.
So what did I choose? I think I’ve proven that the question is moot. And maybe it’s time for you to make a choice, dear reader. You decide. Whatever provides you with the most enjoyable ending. I’m happy when you’re happy, afterall.
O-kee-dee, I’ll throw you a bone. Two roads diverged in an aspen wood that day. And I—I took the one less traveled by.