Renault's Championship Years

Bonjour, mes abonnés, I bring to you another video, which acts as something of an extension of the piece looking at Ferrari's 2005 campaign, in its tracing Renault's years at the front of the grid through 2005-2006, made into what they were largely by virtue of the work of a Spaniard who wasn't then so vexed by underpowered engines. With that dealt with, let's move on to other matters. There's no use in giving up hope, and so I keep moving along with the flow of life, accepting the fact that there's simply nothing I can plausibly say to make people understand the entrapments of my affliction, or, rather, to have them think anything other than 'what the fuck is wrong with this guy?', proceeding to do their utmost to pretend that I don't exist. So I type. I type a lot. I might even go so far as to suggest that people in my position should have the legal right to decide upon their own euthanising, so as to avoid the inconveniences of cleanup after their finally putting an end to the relentless torture of death by a thousand rejections (shotgun to the head has a 99% success rate, if not also the messiest aftermath). Yes, there are the fortunate few who find positions with programming companies (or, by the sounds of race engineers' voices over team radio, in the technical departments of F1 teams) in recognition of the utility of their divergent brain types, but the vast majority of our breed fall between the cracks and live an existence that bears the hallmarks of a living death. It's not even that I didn't try, in that, doing everything I conceivably could to demonstrate the reasons for my being deserving of gaining station somewhere that might sustain a personality such as mine, I was duly anally raped many times over as the result of the person on whom I was reliant's being an emotional incompetent himself, who was therefore unable to conceive of how he might help me in a time of my shit's being violently fucked up, recommending courses of action that didn't come to amicable conclusions at all. Nor is it even as though I lived my whole life in this way, in that, when I was younger, I excelled in certain sports and was a generally outgoing person, only for my father, who was so obliging as to propagate his faulty genes, to duly get himself killed paragliding off the summit of a mountain. From then onwards, it was only downhill, my prowess in sporting endeavours gradually fading (forcing the adoption of solo endeavours not dependent on coordination in the form of cycling and jogging), my success with girls sharply declining, my affectation towards other humans decreasing with each new negative experience. Despite all of this, I clung (still cling) to certain points of knowledge, now producing these videos on a semi-frequent basis in the hopes of its preventing from an overt shrinking of the intellect, and the far more distant prospect of someone's actually being able to pull me from this hole, otherwise to end up as a no-hoper carousing 4chan in his every free hour. Owing to years of Forza, I can also drive without issue, in that it hasn't been something that has become tainted by a barrage of deprecating external judgements, hence I possess the half freedom of the open roads, whilst acknowledging that, wherever I should go, my perception among others will not change. In contemplating my life, I have to wonder whether I can really be as I am, whether the past twelve years haven't all been some hideous dream from which I'll promptly wake in the body of my younger self, whether it can really be possible to endure such a passive, insidious form of degradation, forced into living as a second class citizen whilst being acutely aware of the fact. There's no use in looking at the photo albums, seeing what I once was, will never be again. The loss came at a time of the spinal cord and brain's not being fully developed, leaving me as the passive observer of my own decline as malformations in these regions took hold, consumed by a personality I scarcely recognise. It wouldn't even be of any use to conduct brain scans so as to identify the issue, in that the closer I come to biologic understanding of my situation, the lesser is my hope that I might be able to live in a bearably fulfilling manner. Many women in a similar position can find a way to exist functionally, in that they're expected to be fragile, even to the point of their succumbing to invalidating nervous conditions, though for a man to fall into the clutches of this affliction, the outlook isn't rosy, the chances of finding another with whom to build a life (or even building a life whilst living coldly) minimal to nonexistent. I make one more video, burn through books in the desperate search for something relatable, and will go to sleep expecting nothing better to come tomorrow. I humour my brain, my oddity, because it's all that I can do, because it's all that there is.