I was once very close to someone scared of making choices. Even binary situations got complicated, frightening with consequences. Some are just used to having it both ways, pushing people to their limits trying to prove superiority of stolen beliefs. Persistance and force put into feeding frustration. Meanings change, ideas die (although later than people). So when it came to everyday life? Full of unaware flowing on auto-pilot straight to the abyss. Annoying as it was, I can now dare to say that it all is more dangerous than having a collection of the most reckless decisions on your resume. Realistically speaking, control over path taken can turn out to be an illusion, sure. But nobody’s going to take away from you the fact of picking up the responsibility for yourself by yourself. And purpose itself? Word too grand. Used here? Nothing but a tiny, amateur paraphrase of what people’ve been preaching over and over again. In fact, you can go as far as to create a bridge in time to something, or rather someONE more inspirational. Going all the way to one, specific young man. I’m going to restrain myself from name-drops. He’s been composing a letter to his friend. 1958, soon to break out as a pioneer of new ways to write words is stuck creating correspondence deserving of much wider audience. It must have been a smoky, introspective evening. Room lit by dim, ember dying lightbulbs hanging on their own in some “good enough” apartment. He was trying to advise his fellow. So hard, in fact, that he ended up with one of the wittiest takes on what you should on this godly earth do with your life.
I don’t have that much wisdom. And close ones were absent when I got near it. Dirty blob of metal in the prequel stage to rusting away. Freshly cleaned paint makes a good impression from afar. Advancing forward, silver, beige, light blue, brown. Hard to tell which colour dominates. Small factory alloys with a whole mile of rubber put on them. Not enough pressure inside. Tonnes of cheap plastic trim all around. Every piece of it either bent, scratched or broken. Time wasn’t merciful. Seeing its face, Death decided to sentence it to eternal limbo. Small chin, huge eyes unblemished by thinking and wide nostrils with vaginal logo between them. I start to question my sobriety. I would’ve sworn on my random relative’s grave that it’s not real. I’m not here. It’s all just a trip, scheduled by my unstable brain, on the way to a massive headache. Just snap your fingers and try to catch a ride home.
Nope, it’s still there. Cut the bullshit. Face it with what’s left of your dignity.
Line of the body starts lower than Lil Jon would’ve ever thought. Hard to tell where it starts exactly, as sea level makes it hard to behold. Where it ends? Not even interested. It’s just like with highschool depression. With how sad they’ve made it, I don’t really remember much besides growing pity. Forgettable I’d say but here I am, typing my rage away. Doors lie to me with “dci” badging. Trying to steal that diesel swag to look like motherly biceps after hauling her three kids all the way to adolescence.
I can already tell that boot isn’t as huge as it should, too short. Open the door, pop the hood latch. 1.6 litres of miserable despair. 16 valve, caretaker-looking love letter to edging orgasm denial covered with openwork composite. It’s thin snorkel is held by black duct tape and yet somehow flies freely when turning this bad boy on. Fake-looking plastic intake opens up, but I’m scared to rev it up, can’t stand strange noises. Whole engine shakes to latin infrasound beat alongside head-banging pigeons and bats. Normally, calling a tow truck isn’t that hard. But I need a car, badly. What’s left from 109 horsepower is coupled with 4-speed automatic kamikaze. You have two computer-managed “drive modes” – roll quietly going about five, or convulse around the equator trying to out-shout your kids in the back because Lisa learned something useful at once but just won’t stop spitting in Dylan’s face. So before finally smashing into a another minivan doing impression of a left turn you’ll actually barehandedly relocate your frontal cortex to your stomach. All this fun exceeding 20kph. God I hate this car. Smash the hood down. Reach for a cigarette.
Broken shades of a deep night coming to an end. The time when parties finished, and day waited for re-election. Next one he rolled is lit. Turning to a Shakespeare for a good reason. Every word coming out of his mind is weigh well. No time for jokes. Pursuit of harmless second opinion is on. Can’t let the friend down.
“To give advice to a man who asks what to do with his life implies something very close to egomania. To presume to point a man to the right and ultimate goal — to point with a trembling finger in the RIGHT direction is something only a fool would take upon himself”
Puerto Rico could’ve been his home at the time of coming up with this response to life-paralysis. No point in shooting complement-loaded minigun right now, guy lived up to become a legend. Point is clear. Number of people able to extract wisdom from written word – too small.
1988. Heroin days. Beetlejuice came out. USSR won 132 medals at Olympics in Seoul. Metallica released album with no bass. Cali cartel made Escobar’s family run for their lives. Half of music videos on MTV have strangely transgender lead vocalists with raspy voices. Rock music is on the way down, with Freddie Mercury struggling with AIDS. Let’s have hope though! At least Renault is ready for depressive next decade. Ride on! Renault Megane concept sees light of the day. Everybody rise, board of dads in expensive suits that don’t fit. Double chins, baggy trousers, shiny shoes. Expensive watches on obese sweaty hands that get shaken with serious faces as if they found a cure for being cheated on. Car presented in Paris will have nothing in common with finally kicked by an honour of going into production abomination. Success anyways, pop the champagne. Throw your cash away, go to town. Let’s pay designers claiming to be chasing new horizons. Give them Megane as a gift, what could go wrong? Come on man, hookers get paid for each hour, no time to lose. Leave the intellectuals in their caves.
So they did.
What came out, was one of the ugliest concept cars ever made. It resembles people’s impression of what their heads could look like with all this “progression of technology” or whatever. Big brains and hopeless eyes. Will to die in misery’s only thing this front seems to recreate. Going for it all in, finding some barbaric way to suffocate in its own guts. Doing so, it could’ve been at least remembered for accomplishing something. Normally, hearing that they’ll have to change almost 100% of it before starting the assembly would cool down the atmosphere. Nope. But people bought it anyways.
Let’s drive. Hood jammed, got in, started it. Renault Scenic automatic minivan. I would’ve never thought that I’m going to say so many wrong words in a row again, but let’s try to make the most of it again. Brought a box of CD’s with me, Primus goes first, Death Grips next. Drop it to drive and off we go with Mud. When your foot’s down, first gear goes all the way to 45 kph. At least this one did. Sounds like I’m breaking it just going in a straight line. No matter how smooth the surface, I can feel in my spine some toddler in New Zealand sneezing. You know, apart from moon changing phases, some distorted noises coming from other galaxies. If you’re Witch Doctor kind of person it could help but come on, Renault made it not only to drop your kids every morning but to pick them up later too. And here comes the problem. First bend, come on! Foot off the gas, nonexistent engine breaking, second pedal in. Weight transfer makes me hold fast looking for a lifeboat. Leave the brake alone, nose lifts again, turn in, feel like in a bendy bus. But it’s not held with huge rubber band, so then start freaking out how hard can you actually push this thing. All this, doing maybe 15. If I had any youngsters on back seats they would all drown in vomit. And I live to tell the tale, suffering from PTSD. All because it’s possible to stay sane in the driver’s seat. When uniformed, armed men force-throw you to the back, first thing to remember is not to be above 1.7m or lie down instantly. Serious people with guns have a tendency to lose few heads, without it you’ll be fine for a moment. But even after your decapitation it’s not the end just yet, as now comes ass whoopin’ time. Sitting on the tank sitting on the axle sitting on rear wheels in this case means both too soft and too hard. The car wobbles horizontally in a hot giant gummy bear way, but then surprise – every single little bastard of a stone is going straight up your butt. After 20 kilometers you start to imagine what it must be, to be in prison with Ryan Gosling’s appearance.
One letter, written by Hunter S Thompson, stood the test of time. Well thought out is what it is, simple too. And these are important things before applying any effort. He, really took his time to help someone. Went to the limits of his ability as a 21-year-old to drop so much truth I can’t even imagine wishing I was that clever at his age. Marketing? They’ll always try to know better, have to. Anticipate demand before any indication of it. Understandable up to some point. That way you’re prepared to cash it in sooner than competition. But if there’s nothing that YOU want, crave, need… you’ll have their leftovers on your plate. And drive a Renault Scenic.