Times are hard. We’ve got a job to do: To be who we are. That ain’t happening by itself, you know. It is HARD WORK–unrelenting, unforgiving, a constant effort. A moment of indecision, hesitation, or–god forbid!–self-doubt and you are a Maybe. Your life is a minefield of opportunities not to be missed! Go get ’em! Your time is NOW! Make every second count! 

Because, if you fuck it up, you will never be you! Your full potential will never be realised. You will just be like all the others, a face in the crowd, one of the pack (refer to my post on Westfield), a fine specimen of a failure.

Being who you are may once have been an automatic thing, the one thing in life not requiring any thought or effort. You were life’s gift to the world. You could not help being you. No longer! You are a work of art now, the unfinished masterpiece that is yours to ruin. As Lily Tomlin said: “When I was young, I always wanted to be somebody. Now I know that I should have been more specific.”

Who are you? That painful question we had to answer when we emerged blinking into the light of puberty. Am I cool? Popular? Loveable? Or at least, likeable? Sexy? Rich? A winner? Or was I a version of At Seventeen?

So, what it’s it like to be At Seventeen as an adult? Mediocre? Pressing your nose against the windows, behind which the popular kids are having a party? Who are you if no one sees you? 

Porsche has the answer to the problem:

“the cure for all things identical? Identity. The new 911…”

All you need is €100,000 and you are somebody, ahead of the pack, a recognisable face, in the fast lane, winning. No more Maybe. Forever 17…