You are not – nor will you ever be – the second coming of Hunter S. Thompson. The first coming was more of a freak accident than anything else, and I doubt it will ever happen again. Please, quit trying to be him. It’s a sad thing to have to watch.
I understand that he was an inspiration to you. Y’know what? He inspired the hell out of me too. But I don’t go around writing half fictionalized accounts of my tedious life where I get to call a bank teller a pig fucker. And I swear to god, if I have to read one more short story that starts out with “We were somewhere around [blank] when the [blank] began to [blank]…” I’ll fucking lose it.
So please cut it out already.
Thanks In Advance,
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