Existence is weird – take it from me if you’re going to take it. I’ve lived an interesting twentysomething years on this planet, experienced some pretty wacky shite. At first I tried to vibe with the masses, I tried to fit in and act just like everyone else, but it never worked. It always made me sad, alone, angry, tired, and drained of the infinite spiritual energy that constantly floods my body. Also, almost every single other being that I’ve 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 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 recently got back to his roots of communing with the denizens of the astral plane through the ingestion of Psychedelic compounds. You may know me as a straightedge runner from Running: How To Torture Yourself And Enjoy It |The Unvictimized Edition|, or you may know me as a depraved human who only ever got to try drugs because grandMother forced me to drink alcohol 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 pick me up off this planet?
Anyway, aside from my evolution, 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 in my brain six months later, which may or may not have also killed me, but I came back from that, too. I caught Lyme disease at age ten and successfully cured it via shamanic methods that I invented myself, no less, just a few months ago. I also almost died from bleeding out after my foot was cut open by a rock, and the only reason I survived that 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 that genuinely enjoys curling my six-foot-tall body into a twenty-nine-inch-tall fetal ball and perching myself on a swivel chair like a crouching dragon whilst I repeatedly press buttons on a laptop that doesn’t turn on unless its plugged into the single outlet in the dusty attic of Mother’s house that I repurposed into a bedroom 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’ve always loved writing; even 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 that I took, I banged out a ten-page research paper about abnormal psychology (meaning schizophrenics, multiple-character bois, bi-polar depresso-maniacs, you know the type) 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 and curing of the neuroplague, which diminished my consciousness to the point that I was half aware of my surroundings and not much else. No thinking, no moving, no living; just existing. It was fucking tragic.
However, ‘twas not all bad. Around the time I became a twentysomething, I started writing poetry, more out of habit 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 the rhymey things, a notebook which sometimes whispered to me when I slept, a notebook which got converted to a folder on my computer, doused in gasoline, carried up a mountain, and ritualistically burned to ashes underneath a full moon because I can only deal with one voice in my head, thank you very little.
Since then I’ve written, published, and un-published two books, formed my own publishing company called The Hillside Commons, and then I re-wrote 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, 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 of photography works, one of which I actually captured myself. I’ve been building this little library of content for myself for about three years now; it’s at the point where it’s developed its own consciousness, and it refuses to be contained.
So here we are, hypothetical reader, on the brink of diving into a compendium of thoughts and poetry written by a man who was, 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 from you start to shoot you nervous looks, as if you’re the one who’s a bit out of left field, if you’re catching my foul here.
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 Hunter Owens Wallace’s third book, my third book:
A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game.