Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

I absolutely love Las Vegas.

Not something you’d guess from me from a girl who likes spending time alone, meditating, wandering and writing.  But oh, do I love Vegas.  Obviously, my general obsession with the human species and the excellent observation opportunities in Vegas have something to deal with it, but even that doesn’t fully account for my adoration of a place about as far from reality as it gets.  The thrill-seeker half of me kicks into overdrive, overwhelmed by the Mecca of artificiality, the pulp of Western Society, the preset Vegas mode of “anything goes.”  The last part is especially important—there are few things I truly enjoy as much as letting completely loose.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is one of my absolute favorite movies.  Never have I, nor will I (probably) endure such an extreme drug trip, so it’s not as if I relate to it on that level—I just believe it sums up exactly what excites me about Vegas.  It’s a fantasy land a world away from real life—a land full of confusion, pleasure, adventure, insanity, where little to no societal rules of the actual world apply.  Plus the movie’s direction is kickass and stars my one true love, Johnny Depp.  

Vegas was, as per usual, was an absolute dream.  Not even remotely close to real life.  Having just come off of an eleven day backpacking trip through the White Mountains of New Hampshire (featuring a three day solo) the culture shock was slightly stronger than anticipated.  I didn’t need the drugs to feel like I was tripping; going from a week and a half in the blustery, snowy New England woods to the surreality Nevada’s biggest gem of a city (faux, or course—maybe even more of a rhinestone).  

When we retreated to our cold, crisp hotel room and I wasn’t spiraling through the make believe world of Vegas, I dealt with fear and loathing in regards to perhaps the last thing that either of those nouns should be associated with—myself.  In the company of my profusely gorgeous best friend, I returned to old ways of ripping myself to shreds.  I tortured myself over my size, my face, my personality—to the point I was distorting my own reality.  My own sickeningly bad trip. 


But sooner or later, we were back out of the dimly grey hotel room, and back under the lights of The Strip—and the reality of insecurity was wiped away with the rest of the real world.