I'm Not Running From Demons! I'm Running WITH Demons!

They sell wine at Chuck E Cheese.

They sell wine at Chuck E Cheese.

I’ve been getting a lot of viewer mail, lately, concerning my apparent degrading mental and physical state. According to many, my recent lack of involvement with VOID (combined with the state of my different social media posts) seems to add up to a steady, if not dramatic, spiral to self destruction.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that my divorce from my first wife, Karen, did indeed have a decided effect upon my emotional state. That being said, I feel that I have moved on. I no longer feel guilt for my role in our break. That being my having taken on second and third wives, without her knowing, within the first few months of our marriage. It was a lapse in judgment on my part, and hindsight is 20/20.

Despite now having to live in a sublet section of a storage unit with no electricity, plumbing, windows, or bed, I don’t see much difference in my quality of life. I still have time for the small luxuries in life, like walking the extra few blocks to get to the nicer, independent coffee shop in which to give myself a sponge bath in it’s restroom.

Am I running from demons? First off, are they demons? They may be personifications of my every growing emotional disabilities, but does that really make them demons? If I were to call them anything, it would be “pals.” That, or drinking buddies.

Who’s to say whether or not they are chasing me to drink, and drugs? Maybe they’re chasing me in the sense of a training montage, with them on a bike behind me, cheering me on. In this metaphor, however, I do admit that what they would be cheering me towards would be mainly drugs and alcohol. 

Also, maybe, cutting.

The point is they’re my friends. When’s the last time you stood by my side, as my friend, and pushed me to smoke heroin which I purchased after selling the last of my recording equipment and clothes? And who are you to judge? You don’t even know who I am anymore. You make me sick. 

On a related note, so does the heroin.

Caleb Finch

Caleb Nathan Friedrich was born in a small coal mining town in northern Pennsylvania to his biological parents Gretchen and Ivan Friedrich. Being the Friedrich’s eleventh child, and seeing the steady decline of Ivan’s health, Caleb was dropped into the, then tumultuous, foster care system. When he turned sixteen he gathered what few items he had and set out to make his mark on the world. Forging false identification and assuming the surname Finch, he was able to talk his way into position for the world renowned San Francisco Inquisitor. He went on to become the newspaper’s longest running editor and chief, and has had many printed collections, including The Time I Spent and The View From the Engine Room. In 1943, Caleb passed away by succoming to his long and painful fight against Butt Aids. It is belived by some that his ghost still haunts different locations in San Francisco, and that it's sort of a dick.