Existence is weird – take it from me, if you’re going to take it. I’ve lived an interesting twenty-something years on this planet, experienced my fair share of wacky shite. At first I tried to vibe with the masses, I tried to fit in and act like everyone else, but it never worked. It always made me feel sad, alone, angry, drained of the infinite spiritual energy that constantly floods my body. Also, almost every single other being I have met on this world, human or otherwise, thinks I’m legitimately insane. It’s fine, though they’re all wrong; in fact, I’m more than one hundred percent sure that literally every single other human being on Earth is legitimately insane, as in mentally ill, and I don’t think they’re ever going to get better. My cat Milkshake agreed with me… rest in peace, my son.
Hi there. My name is Hunter Owens Wallace, known as HOW to myself and the hypothetical humans who read these books I write. I’m a shaman who finally got back to his roots of communing with the denizens of the astral plane via the ingestion of Psychedelic compounds. You may know me as a once sober runner from Running: How To Torture Yourself And Enjoy It |The Unvictimized Edition|. You may otherwise know me as a depraved writer who only ever got to wake up and try drugs because grandMother forced me to drink booze during Roadtrip: The ¡Gramango! Edition, and thank goodness she did! Shout to you, G-Mah, and shout to Mango, and you know what? Shout to Jarome, fuck yeah! While I’m at it, shout to all my humans, and shout to all my gargoyles! If any aliens are reading this, shout to you, too! Also, when the fuck are you going to beam me off this planet?!
Anyway, aside from me putting books out, many strange things have happened to me during my career on Earth: I felt my third eye open, I died and came back to life only to feel something explode inside my brain six months later, which may or may not have also killed me – came back from that, too. I caught Lyme disease at age ten and successfully cured it just a few months ago via shamanic methods I invented by myself, no less. I also almost died from bleeding out after my foot was cut open by a rock – the only reason I survived is because the Universe Herself whispered into the ear of my belligerently drunk uncle and told him to crazy glue my foot back together. And thank goodness he did, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to choose to not run anymore!
All that said, I also fancy myself a writer. Yes, I am the one, single human being on this planet who genuinely enjoys curling my six-foot-tall body into a twenty-nine-inch-tall fetal ball and perching myself on a spinny chair like a crouching dragon whilst I repeatedly press buttons on a laptop which doesn’t turn on unless it’s plugged into the one working outlet in the dusty attic of Mother’s house I repurposed into a bedroom for myself, and… wait, where was this going?
Ah yes, I remember now. So now that you know how I position myself while I write, you can learn that I enjoy the act of writing. I have always loved writing; back in school, I would crush essays like my job wasn’t to be a manager of the planet Earth. In community college, Composition was my favorite class, and in a psychology class I took, I banged out a ten-page research paper on abnormal psychology (that’s schizophrenia, multiple-identity disorder, bipolar depresso-mania, you know the deal) in a single night.
I got the highest grade in the class.
But, I never realized I enjoyed writing until this year, 2019, because of a combination of the majority of my peers vehemently hating the act of writing (thus influencing me to feel the same way) and the Lyme bacteria eating away at my brain over the course of the fourteen years between my contracting of and curing of the Lyme neuroplague which diminished my consciousness to the point where I was half aware of my surroundings and not much else all the time always. No thinking, no moving, no living. Just existing. It was fucking tragic…
…but not all bad. Around the time I became a twentysomething, I started writing poetry, more out of urge than anything else. I listen to a lot of rap music and my brain has a certain proclivity towards rhyming, so I figured, why the fuck not? I had a whole notebook full of my own rhymey jottings, a notebook which often whispered to me in the night, a notebook which got converted to a folder on my laptop, doused in gasoline, carried up a mountain, and ritualistically burned to ashes beneath the red glow of the blood moon because I can only talk with one voice in my head at a time, thank you very little.
Since then, I have written, published, and un-published two books, formed my own publishing company called The Hillside Commons, and re-written and re-published those same two books, meaning I’ve moved away from the poetry scene. My old poems didn’t just go away, though; I have tons of the shits just sitting around in my hard drive begging to be released in some form, in any form, for fuck’s sake let us free! I also have a few short essays I’ve done (and some short stories, but they’re a different story altogether), plus a couple works of photography, one of which I even captured myself. I’ve been building this little library of content for about three years now, and it has come to the point where it’s developed its own consciousness. It refuses to be contained. It must be printed and set free.
So here we are, hypothetical reader, on the brink of taking a dive into a compendium of thoughts and poems written by a human who was once, at one point, meaning he no longer is, legitimately insane. Because that’s what Lyme disease does to you, it eats away at your brain until the schizophrenics chilling in that group home up the road start to shoot you nervous looks, as if you are the one who’s a bit out of left field, if you’re catching my foul here… but I’m done with fouls now. I’m ready to hit my homerun and you’re here to see me do it, just as soon as you climb to your spot in the grandstands. Please, take your time. Don’t mind me at all.
Take A Seat
Now that you’re all caught up, please, take a seat. Get comfortable, steep some tea. The Hillside Commons and I are both very proud to present to you The Hillside Commons’s third book, Hunter Owens Wallace’s third book, my third book:
A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game
This has been the introduction of the book A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game. Here is everything you need to know about it:
A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game
- A satirical poetry anthology about an author returning to his roots and evolving
- Book stats:
– 150 pages
– 26,692 words
– Spiral: The Highest One Writing | Arc: III
– Series: W-63 | Entry: 3
– Revision Date: June 11, 2021
- Click here to read the book for free
- Buy from Amazon:
– eBook: $2.00
– Paperback: $4.42
- Buy from The Hillside Commons:
– Signed Paperback: $13.00
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page, too. Here’s that.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~