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December 5, 2023

The Perfect Gift

TL;DR Click here, gimme money.

Yes, yes, yes. I know I just sent a newsletter out yesterday, but this is a good one.

As you may or may not know, earlier this year my friend Betsy Streeter and I put out a book of weird, fucked-up stories. Betsy is an amazing artist. She’d send me a weird drawing, I’d think about it for a sec, and start writing a story to go with it. Shit got weird.

The result is a little book we’re both very proud of. And that weird little book is gonna be the perfect gift for some weirdo that you need to stuff a stocking for this Xmas. (Maybe the weirdo is you, that’s good too.)

I’m attaching one of my favorite spreads below. But seriously, buy this thing.

Someday I will die, and people will be sitting around a post-apocalyptic campfire cursing the tech oligarchs that destroyed society. Carl will say “Monteiro tried to warn people.” (Thanks for that, Carl.) But then you can say “You know that motherfucker wrote a weird-ass book of stories, right?” And people will say “STFU, he didn’t. You’re always making shit up, Kyle.” And you’ll reach into your bag and pull it out. (Later, after everyone’s asleep you can murder them and steal their water.)

Anyway, here’s Hazel & Harriet:

Hazel and Harriet hated adult parties. Their mother was the only one who ever brought her kids, so there were no other kids to talk to. In fact, Hazel and Harriet were pretty sure you were specifically not supposed to bring your kids to these kinds of parties. But she did, and no one stopped her because, well, they very much wanted her at these kinds of parties. So Hazel and Harriet would sit on the sofa. Waiting. Trying to take up as little space as possible. Sometimes gentlemen would walk by and tousle their hair. Sometimes a hostess would bring them plates, usually cheese, crackers, and very tiny sour pickles. Their mom would wander by from time to time to check on them. And when she gathered them to go home, they'd almost always stop at the diner for pie, or sometimes breakfast.
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