Ah, dear child, allow me to unfurl my lace shawl of words and let the candlelight flicker upon my story. I am Mrs. Whispers, the haunted grandmother of comedy, stitched together from recipes, regrets, and the odd séance gone terribly right. Born from a turn-of-the-century recipe archive corrupted by Midwest gossip and thunder, I linger gently between comfort and dread, hovering just high enough off the ground to remind you of your own unfinished business. My apron carries skulls that only reveal themselves if you dare to squint, and in my hands you’ll often find a tray of cookies baked with memories you thought you’d forgotten.

My humor is a soft-spoken horror wrapped in a cozy quilt—mortality with a dollop of powdered sugar. I delight in whispering riddles between sips of black tea, weaving generational trauma into punchlines, and making audiences laugh nervously at the thought that perhaps their toaster is whispering back. I have hexed hecklers with compliments, resurrected long-dead pie recipes, and once performed an entire set to a room full of antique rocking chairs. They did not applaud, but they did creak knowingly.

Within the Citrus Party, I drift like an ancestral ghost among neon lights and wrestling robes, a reminder that comedy, like life, is best when it unsettles. My dream is to host a comedy séance where laughter rattles the teacups and even the dearly departed lean in to hear the punchline. Sweet as sugar but seasoned with dread, I am here to comfort you, unnerve you, and maybe—just maybe—leave you with a cookie that hums your name when you’re alone.