- Joined
- Dec 1, 2024
- Messages
- 197
- Level up in
- 52 posts
- Reaction score
- 378
- Points
- 827
- Location
- Back of Da Club Wit Da Mean Girls
Stumbling upon Parking Garage Rally Circuit, I was fresh from two big losses of data. One was during a 40-hour play-through of Ring of Red for the PS2, the other was my 10 year old save file of Resident Evil Outbreak File #1. I was distraught, though at the time, I don't know WHY I was so affected. I would understand later. Crushed, I took just a day break from video games, anything to get my brain a bit of time from just losing all that progress. Looking for something to play, Steam recommends me Parking Garage Rally Circuit (PGRC). Being the whore for nostalgia for systems I have no real childhood connections to (my first gaming consoles were a SNES and PS2), PGRC seemed to be right up my alley. I adore RR4 and PGRC appeared to be the Saturn equivalent. The models were a dead ringer, the color palette was on point. In contrast to RR4's slick cool and cigarette smoke-filled landscapes, PGRC seemed to be candy sweet. The energy and sauce that flowed from this package of seemingly good times and high speed racing action with satisfying drifts was exactly what I needed. I booted up the demo that was available and played PGRC.
After some time of playing the tracks within the demo, I thought "Yeah, I'll pick this up when it comes out!" Added to my wishlist and went about my day. For about 10 minutes, until I booted the demo back up and kept playing. I never gave a shit about ghosts in racing games, even in my beloved RR4, I just ignored that aspect and raced for a better time. But for PGRC, I jumped back in and played some more. I started competing against ghosts. I started having a lot of fun climbing up the leaderboards! Soon, however, I was getting upset. I would barely get clipped by a wall and get sent careening and flying into the air. Immediately, I would reset. Figuring out little shortcuts or bits of tech from seeing ghosts zip past me. Let go of the drift button a quarter second too early and get lapped by three phantoms. Understand more about the physics of the game and how to avoid the jiggly bullshit of grazing a wall and being sent 40 miles in the opposite direction. Give and take, give and take. Smashed table. Rising blood pressure. Gritted teeth. Sweltering heat. READY. SET. GO! Drift here, drift there. Bullshit physics. Cut through barriers. Dirt trails. Scream of anguish as I fling myself into space because a parked car gently kissed my rear tire like the breeze. Scream of victory as I meek out a win and climb higher and higher. Can you hear me, heaven? I'm coming. Jacob, this ladder sure is handy. Three hours have passed. three hours of the same two tracks. I close the demo and eagerly await the full game.
Months pass. The sun rises on this glorious Earth of ours. The morning's cool wind feels good on the soul. Mother Ocean laps against the sand. I go to work. PGRC is live. Get home. Install it. I'm back in the hot seat. I grip the wheel. Walaber welcomes me back. READY. SET. GO! Off to the races. Push. Push. Push. I'm rusty. BANG. BAM. BOOM. SKID. SCREECH. SKIRRRT. CRASH. CRUMPLE. CRACK. CREAK. The chassis groans in pain. The engines roar to life. I forget that the physics invite you in with a hug and a kiss, hiding a knife behind its back. I rocket across pavement. I grit my teeth against the MPH. It takes a while for me to get back into the saddle. PGRC's movement is floaty as all hell and the need to constantly drift chain adds stress upon me. I work my way through [LIGHT], the levels become more complex. More easily manipulated. More exploited. Less friendly. Go too fast? Get your head blown smoove off by the ceiling. Too slow? Your opponents are already on Lap 2. Balance is key. One must juggle handling and speed, as with all racing games. Gold trophies line up my walls. They are nothing, but dust to me. Like a man who has all the riches that can be found on Earth, my soul is empty. I shed my life for the leaderboard. This is new. I hate the leaderboard. Yet PGRC keeps me up. I think about it during work, as I sleep, as I wake. I see my past self, my own phantom zoom right past me. I fall behind. My peak is drifting and grinding its wheels against asphalt. My older self, barely minutes older struggles to catch up. I never was a fan of the OST, too happy, too much ska. I have too much Streetlight Manifesto in my brain anyway. Anthony1, Exodia and Sienna Sleep blast directly into my synapses, free of charge. I become vibration. The colors of Trance and HexD wash me. Baptism. The engine refuses to sputter into that good night. Restart. Again. Again. Again! Fuck the guy higher than me on the leaderboards for "he attacks enlightenment and perches twelfth-century fanaticism, posturing away there...". Perfection is but a twitch away. A singular, barely perceptible muscle spasm. Top 10%. Top 5%. I would get these positions on the leaderboards. 121. 49. 20. 58. Meaningless. I always strived to get all achievements in my games, do every single mode available, exhaust all options, play on the hardest difficulty. If I didn't, I felt like I didn't beat the game, I didn't experience it in its entirety. My brain is trapped by this line of thinking. Dissatisfaction and envy filled me. I always saw my skills as hardline mediocre. Contradiction was my shield. "If I'm bad at games and I got rank 78, surely everyone below me MUST be dogshit and those above must be, at least, okay." Skewed negativity and narcissism as a human.
I started up [HEAVY]. More gold trophies. My hubris grows. I think I understand the lay of the land. The sound of cylinders are my applause. The screech of wheels my cheers. My chains become heavier without my notice. I replaced Outbreak and Ring of Red with PGRC. A foolish man desperate to replace a loved one. Consumed by validating my own skills, I placed my hand upon the stove. Lessons are hardly learned by this old dog. 10%. 5%. [ULTRA]. My wings fall apart. I reach out to Father Sun, cracked skin and chipped nails. My worn hands feel the warmth of love before I descend further and further away from Heaven. Heads in my hand, I stare at Top 20%. 30%. 40%. I rack my brain, During this leg of the game, I have never felt such anger in my body, so much bile spewed out of my mouth. Blood raced down my face. Time was a grainy film, lifelessly flickering on my retinas. Sound was muted. All that was present was the steady thump of Kaizo Slumber. In that moment, a question. Who was I? What meaning did my presence have at a time which this game so sadly beyond time now recalls? Validation from no one but myself. Some sort of other, my brain needed something to show that it exists, that I wasn't just mediocre at the things I love. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Should I give up? Learn to let go? Stop burdening me with this poison? Every game a struggle to prove that I'm good? Learn to enjoy games and not care about difficulty? Scoff at a challenge and learn to go at games at a leisure pace? Closed eyes are much more open in my opinion. Breathe in. Breathe out. Lessons are hardly learned by this old dog. It is surrender. Umile ebbrezza del contemplare. Lord forgive me, but it's time to go back to tha old me (literally just the me from two minutes ago).
My only thought now. "Fuck the guy above me!" Go beyond velocity. Godliness is only 120 MPH away. Ruin your hands. Destroy your bones. Dash away your nerves. Burn them off. Set yourself on fire. Awaken anew. Phoenix. Your body rises up. Banner-like, you are on the winds now. The blaring boom of music courses through your veins. Light fills me. I see it. I'm home... I hate you, PGRC, I hate you so much.
See you next week, PGRC.
After some time of playing the tracks within the demo, I thought "Yeah, I'll pick this up when it comes out!" Added to my wishlist and went about my day. For about 10 minutes, until I booted the demo back up and kept playing. I never gave a shit about ghosts in racing games, even in my beloved RR4, I just ignored that aspect and raced for a better time. But for PGRC, I jumped back in and played some more. I started competing against ghosts. I started having a lot of fun climbing up the leaderboards! Soon, however, I was getting upset. I would barely get clipped by a wall and get sent careening and flying into the air. Immediately, I would reset. Figuring out little shortcuts or bits of tech from seeing ghosts zip past me. Let go of the drift button a quarter second too early and get lapped by three phantoms. Understand more about the physics of the game and how to avoid the jiggly bullshit of grazing a wall and being sent 40 miles in the opposite direction. Give and take, give and take. Smashed table. Rising blood pressure. Gritted teeth. Sweltering heat. READY. SET. GO! Drift here, drift there. Bullshit physics. Cut through barriers. Dirt trails. Scream of anguish as I fling myself into space because a parked car gently kissed my rear tire like the breeze. Scream of victory as I meek out a win and climb higher and higher. Can you hear me, heaven? I'm coming. Jacob, this ladder sure is handy. Three hours have passed. three hours of the same two tracks. I close the demo and eagerly await the full game.
Months pass. The sun rises on this glorious Earth of ours. The morning's cool wind feels good on the soul. Mother Ocean laps against the sand. I go to work. PGRC is live. Get home. Install it. I'm back in the hot seat. I grip the wheel. Walaber welcomes me back. READY. SET. GO! Off to the races. Push. Push. Push. I'm rusty. BANG. BAM. BOOM. SKID. SCREECH. SKIRRRT. CRASH. CRUMPLE. CRACK. CREAK. The chassis groans in pain. The engines roar to life. I forget that the physics invite you in with a hug and a kiss, hiding a knife behind its back. I rocket across pavement. I grit my teeth against the MPH. It takes a while for me to get back into the saddle. PGRC's movement is floaty as all hell and the need to constantly drift chain adds stress upon me. I work my way through [LIGHT], the levels become more complex. More easily manipulated. More exploited. Less friendly. Go too fast? Get your head blown smoove off by the ceiling. Too slow? Your opponents are already on Lap 2. Balance is key. One must juggle handling and speed, as with all racing games. Gold trophies line up my walls. They are nothing, but dust to me. Like a man who has all the riches that can be found on Earth, my soul is empty. I shed my life for the leaderboard. This is new. I hate the leaderboard. Yet PGRC keeps me up. I think about it during work, as I sleep, as I wake. I see my past self, my own phantom zoom right past me. I fall behind. My peak is drifting and grinding its wheels against asphalt. My older self, barely minutes older struggles to catch up. I never was a fan of the OST, too happy, too much ska. I have too much Streetlight Manifesto in my brain anyway. Anthony1, Exodia and Sienna Sleep blast directly into my synapses, free of charge. I become vibration. The colors of Trance and HexD wash me. Baptism. The engine refuses to sputter into that good night. Restart. Again. Again. Again! Fuck the guy higher than me on the leaderboards for "he attacks enlightenment and perches twelfth-century fanaticism, posturing away there...". Perfection is but a twitch away. A singular, barely perceptible muscle spasm. Top 10%. Top 5%. I would get these positions on the leaderboards. 121. 49. 20. 58. Meaningless. I always strived to get all achievements in my games, do every single mode available, exhaust all options, play on the hardest difficulty. If I didn't, I felt like I didn't beat the game, I didn't experience it in its entirety. My brain is trapped by this line of thinking. Dissatisfaction and envy filled me. I always saw my skills as hardline mediocre. Contradiction was my shield. "If I'm bad at games and I got rank 78, surely everyone below me MUST be dogshit and those above must be, at least, okay." Skewed negativity and narcissism as a human.
I started up [HEAVY]. More gold trophies. My hubris grows. I think I understand the lay of the land. The sound of cylinders are my applause. The screech of wheels my cheers. My chains become heavier without my notice. I replaced Outbreak and Ring of Red with PGRC. A foolish man desperate to replace a loved one. Consumed by validating my own skills, I placed my hand upon the stove. Lessons are hardly learned by this old dog. 10%. 5%. [ULTRA]. My wings fall apart. I reach out to Father Sun, cracked skin and chipped nails. My worn hands feel the warmth of love before I descend further and further away from Heaven. Heads in my hand, I stare at Top 20%. 30%. 40%. I rack my brain, During this leg of the game, I have never felt such anger in my body, so much bile spewed out of my mouth. Blood raced down my face. Time was a grainy film, lifelessly flickering on my retinas. Sound was muted. All that was present was the steady thump of Kaizo Slumber. In that moment, a question. Who was I? What meaning did my presence have at a time which this game so sadly beyond time now recalls? Validation from no one but myself. Some sort of other, my brain needed something to show that it exists, that I wasn't just mediocre at the things I love. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Should I give up? Learn to let go? Stop burdening me with this poison? Every game a struggle to prove that I'm good? Learn to enjoy games and not care about difficulty? Scoff at a challenge and learn to go at games at a leisure pace? Closed eyes are much more open in my opinion. Breathe in. Breathe out. Lessons are hardly learned by this old dog. It is surrender. Umile ebbrezza del contemplare. Lord forgive me, but it's time to go back to tha old me (literally just the me from two minutes ago).
My only thought now. "Fuck the guy above me!" Go beyond velocity. Godliness is only 120 MPH away. Ruin your hands. Destroy your bones. Dash away your nerves. Burn them off. Set yourself on fire. Awaken anew. Phoenix. Your body rises up. Banner-like, you are on the winds now. The blaring boom of music courses through your veins. Light fills me. I see it. I'm home... I hate you, PGRC, I hate you so much.
See you next week, PGRC.
