A Pickle By Any Other Name

I'm thinking about pickles.
Particularly about how they start as one thing...and are twisted and manipulated to be something entirely different to suit the whims of people who don't want a cucumber...they want a pickle. Pickles don't grow in the ground obviously or I would have an entire field, would don some overalls, and you could call me Farmer Crit Scallywag (as I'm sure my pirate split personality persona would surface from sheer frustration at my attempt to cultivated my pickle farm to protect me from meltdown. Scallywag Crit ain't gonna' take no shit from no pickles.
I digress.
Sure, they maintain the shape of a cucumber for the most part, with the addition of pursed out imperfections which I'm sure are a by product of sitting in a jar of vinegar and salt. Once you start the process, that pickle will never again be a true cucumber. The smell has changed. The taste has changed. The same could be said for people.
We begin in this world a cucumber, fresh and cool, warmed by the sun until we are harvested by the world and placed in our individual jars until we're suitable little pickles. The life we live seeps into our pores, changing us forever. The choices we make that we wish we could change are the blemishes that others judge us upon.
Very rarely is a cucumber asked if it wants to be a pickle.
Rarer still are the moments when we ask ourselves who we want to be instead of who the world wants us to be.
In recap.
If cucumbers could think about their conundrum it would blow donkey balls for them. Being a person isn't much better unless you use that noodle of yours to be the person you want to be. AND. Last but not least...Critty is one weird bitch for contemplating the imagined inner workings of the cucumber psyche.