Dear Mr. Thompson,
I guess it’s silly to write a letter to someone who is already deceased, but if there is a blogosphere wherever you are, maybe you’ll read this. I’m one of those people who has caused searches on your name to jump over 1,330% since your death this weekend. I just wanted to let you know, as so many others have, that you made an impact on my youth. My parents would probably say that you corrupted me, but I just want to say thanks for showing me a good time.
When I read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas for the first time, a highway in my brain opened up. I was a teenager in Mississippi (of all places) and to say that I was bored is like saying W has problems pronouncing big words. You were one reason I started going from wishing I could Get Out, to actually plotting my eventual escape.
In college, I picked boyfriends based on whether or not they had read your work. In fact, I remember sitting in a bar one night and falling in love for a few weeks with some guy who had curly blond hair and Roger Daltrey eyes. I can’t remember his name, but I do remember that he claimed he had met you once. I remember touching his arm with a finger, as if I by touching him made me a part of your inner circle. Ironically, I’m just the type of person you would have made fun of.
It wasn’t so much how you wrote (although you came up with some great lines, like “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.”) but the way you wrote about a life more jaded than a Buddhist statue. You also once said that when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. With that one line, you probably inspired untold amount of writers. There will never be another you, but hopefully, some of us can have moments where we are as wonderfully weird and free. Wherever you are, I hope you are having a good time.
