MEMOIR
Hunter S. Thompson Was My Muse
Until I nearly killed myself
It was during Memorial Day Weekend, 2008, that I earned my nickname — Taraoul Duchess, a spin on writer Hunter S. Thompson’s pen name, Raoul Duke, with a necessary mispronunciation of duchess as doo-chess.
My family’s annual camping trip diverted from its previous innocence as me and my friends came of age, fresh out of our freshman year — yet still fifteen, reckless, and admirable of false idols like Mr. Thompson.
Hunter S. Thompson wrote such cult classics as “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” and “The Rum Diary,” both adapted for film, with Johnny Depp in the lead roles. The former based on the true story of him being a drug-addled journalist in the ‘70s; the latter more a fictional rendition of his inebriated perceptions of the world around him.
I can thank my friend Jim for my introduction to Mr. Thompson’s work, as well as the full monthly prescription of Adderall he’d brought to our Capron, Illinois, campsite that weekend. And also my dad for the wine coolers — which still leave the worst hangovers, even if you’re not using them to wash down pills and replenish lost saliva from a quarter-ounce of pot.
We packed enough supplies for dayslong inebriation rather than what’s required to camp. When…
