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"Heuristical Me" by William M. McIntosh

I got a message from you last night. It said you felt a lot of crazy ways that I didn’t know you felt, and it said a lot more than that. It said awful things about me when I’m naked and it told me not to ever talk to you again. I figured not to worry and that we could talk about it over dinner. Who can say!

Work life was trying today. There were many mini meetings concerning other meetings we’d already met in most of this week. One guy tells you this and another says that—and before you know it, everything is a total wash. Whole day down the drain. It’s half a wonder we can even get the lunch order down.

I landed those vouchers to that thing you want to do this summer—I know! You don’t want to talk about it because it’s not the real thing, even though you and I both know that a mostly simulated vacation is better than no vacation at all. I’ll bet when it’s said and done, you’ll be glad you went virtual this year. Not only will we save tokens on the dollar, but you’ll hardly notice the difference because the quality is so good. Who can say!

I got a call from the school again. Our three youngest, if it can be believed, appeared to glitch at several points throughout the day. They are screeching terrible dial-up internet sounds at me and clamoring that they didn’t. They are barking ones and zeroes and I can’t say for sure if they’re even the ones I dropped off at the bus port this morning. I’ll say this: I’d rather unadopt them to wherever they came from than spend another three days waiting in line at truancy court.

The cops called, too. Said they have CCTV footage of grandpa holding up the credit union. Said they’d be willing to clear and reverse the charges, as the footage shows an abnormal number of fingers and teeth. Still unsure, though, as grandpa did take all three sets of dentures and one and a half pairs of skin tone gloves out with him today. Who can say!

Please get the mail when you get home, the box is overflowing. I’ve been brought up on twenty-three dashcam litigations this week and I don’t have time to file for more appeals, what with more and more videos of me speeding in residential areas and doing e-brake slides in school zones. Just bring in the mail and shred what you can. I can’t respond to notices I don’t get.

I just read on the news billboard that the president just declared war on Angola. Said we intercepted six cruise missiles and sent twelve back. Instituted a draft, if it can be believed. Unsure of the status. I’ll either be home after traffic time or reporting to boot camp. If it’s the latter, I’ll be sure to write. Who can say!

By the way, I’m bringing home milk. I know, I know—they say it’s bad again, but when it’s reported wholesome and clean tomorrow, I want to be ready. What really does a body good is preparation. Who can say!

I got your funeral notice. I’ll try and squeeze it in, but with all the scheduled meetings at work next week, I just don’t know if I’ll be able to attend. Once you’ve been duped into several spousal sendoffs, you become sort of a cynic. I’ll wait until you’re gray and cold to the touch, because I know caskets don’t sell themselves. I also know I can’t afford another thirty-thousand credit whoopsie. Those bastards at Interment Zone can be a real bother with their viral marketing.

Listen, I’m signing off. I’ve got a lot of sleep to catch up on during commute hour. I’ve been up for days just trying to decide which of my faces is mine. Mirrors seem to lie to me, anymore. Everything seems to lie.

If you don’t trust in the veracity of this message, I won’t blame you. The letterhead alone can’t make you sleep at night. My blood signature could have easily been synthesized. I want to make you believe me, but in the long run, who can say!

I’ll see you at home, or I won’t because I’m at war. Don’t wait up.

Mostly love,


William M. McIntosh is a writer of drivel and collector of rejection letters. He loves literature, film and any other kind of art he can get his grubby little fingers on. His work has been published by Maudlin House, The /tƐmz/ Review, The Yard: Crime Blog, and Night Picnic Press. He doesn’t tweet, but if he did it would be @moonliteciabata. You can find links to his work at He is based in Cincinnati.


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