We were too busy eating a whole bag of Robin Eggs last night to bother watching the finale of Kell on Earth. Luckily our fictional freelancer Betsey Morgenstern was there for all the action, and lived to tell the tale.

Just Shoot Me
By Betsey Morgenstern

Here is a list of things I learned from Kelly Cutrone: If you have to cry go outside, don't give advice for free, make sure you serve food at your functions, and when you're going to shoot a video on the fly, make sure there are six-foot-five Irish Americans with ties to the police force there.

That's how she foiled my plans to completely ruin her shoot for a DKNY video that they're going to put on their Facebook page. Most people do this with a Flip camera and a healthy dose of booze, but Kelly had a real budget, a crew, a bunch of models wearing modified Snuggies, security, catering, and me to order around.

See, everyone in the office was planning this surprise party for Kelly, because it was her birthday and they can never actually catch her by surprise. Big Andrew and Little Stephanie even pretended to be bride and groom so that they could go to a cake testing together, so they were very serious about doing things right. Candles and flowers were ordered. A hotel was booked. A budget was laid out. It was just like hiring a hooker, except no one was going to be getting laid and the only shoes would be these horrible things that look like the monster Luke Skywalker crawled out of on Hoth. Well, that's what my Irish boyfriend Tim said. He's hired hookers and seen Star Wars.

The problem is, the interns weren't invited to the party. Apparently this orgy could only hold 15 people, and who were the first trimmed from the RSVP list? Of course, the interns. And then Kelly expects me to slave away for her as they are dissing me from the party? She's got to be crazy.

I was on set with her and the horde of models in their rainbow of Snuggies and we were shooting in Columbus Circle with no permits, so they were working only with the cooperation of the crowd. Now that I'm not invited to the party, I'm going to make sure the crowd is not cooperating. I sent a pedestrian right into the shot. I gathered around a bunch of tourists with cameras to snap away. I hailed a taxi so it would stop right in the the models' path. Yeah, I was a holy terror, but somehow they managed to get the shot.

The same thing happened in Soho. At every step I tried to mess the video up and it didn't work. The same thing on Wall Street where I tried to get the cops to shut her down and the security guards talked them out of it. I offered blow jobs and free favors, but the guys were so busy slapping each others backs and sharing yuks about their days in the 49th precinct that they couldn't even be bothered with me.

Finally, we ran to Washington Square park for the final shot. Since I couldn't destroy the entire project, I figured I could at least piss off Kelly and the client by delaying and making the whole thing go into overtime and therefore over budget. I tried to confuse the models, which is usually easy, but they were so used to walking in lock step by now that they couldn't be glamored out of their training. Next thing I know, it was over. The shoot was over, and Kelly was hopping about Washington Square Park clapping and giggling in triumph.

That's when it hit me. At every turn I have been thwarted. Sure, I got a few people fired and fucked with a few events—remember when I made that male model faint at the jeans show or when I took one of the employees out partying and my friends stole all that booze?—but Kelly won. She always wins. And I thought about Robyn and her chipmunk cheeks bulging with insults. And Emily with her beautiful hair that is full of Satan's laughter. And Big Andrew, with his deep voice, trust fund, and casual way of getting silly tasks completed in the most ridiculous manner. And Little Stephanie, the workaholic whose boyfriend I stole just for kicks, the girl who looks better with less makeup and sleep and who will always be a martyr for the team. And, finally, Tim. Sweet, sweet Irish Tim with his tennis ball sweater and our weekly trysts in the basement bathroom at the Uniqlo store on Broadway. I was really going to miss them so, but they tortured me with their ineptitude and teamwork.

And I couldn't hold back anymore. I just ran up to Kelly and with a force summoned up by weeks of frustration, I gave her a shove that sent her falling, careening through the gloom like a ball of black clothing thrown out of Morrissey's tour bus when he was done with his latest little boy toy.

"What the fuck are you doing," she screamed as she hoisted herself up? "What kind of power girl are you? Why did you shove me? I'm here trying to teach you how to run a business and take over the world. Fashion is life and this business is tough, but it is not that tough sister. I will fucking kick your ass."

She was coming at me and I was stunned by what I did Kelly. Finally, I had won. As the crew either tittered or tried to hold her back from punching me in the face, I had won.

"Get out of here. You're fired!" Kelly screamed.

And I just turned away, happy in my victory as I walked across the park toward a throng of NYU students practicing a modern dance number in the night. It was fall and the evenings were starting to get chilly. I clasped my arms together and smiled smugly as I could hear Kelly raging in the background. And there was a tiny chill on my face, as the track of a single tear was dried by the breeze.