What would you get if John Carpenter had written the myth of Narcissus by way of the Onion’s Smoove B? Why you’d get this crazy Atlantan who stalked herself just to get the attention of her fiance. According to herself:

“You are, my dear, an exquisite piece of human flesh. I await the day to come face-to-face to you.”

Smoove? Is that you?

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