killing myself in front of Lorne Michaels to change the trajectory of his life and take down the 49-year-old institution that is Saturday Night Live

By Sophie Ezrol

On the streets of Midtown Manhattan, surrounded by indie teenage girls of an indeterminate sexuality, I shake. Both from the cold and from excitement. After trekking from Boston to New York, and waiting six chilling hours on the concrete, I finally got my grubby little hands on the highly coveted Timothee Chalamet and boygenius Saturday Night Live standby ticket. 

The next morning, reveling in our great feat, my friends and I take to the streets of Soho to celebrate. We were invincible. Unstoppable. That night we were going to be seeing our favorite actor and favorite band. We had first class tickets to the bisexual superbowl. As we romp around Brandy Melville, the entirety of Lana Del Ray’s Born To Die blaring, my friend notices that Kris Jenner had added to her instagram story telling people to watch the show tonight. We are all geeked. Not only would we be seeing a great SNL lineup, but we would get to amongst the Kardashians…or so we thought. 

At 6:30 we line back up in the NBC gift shop, and anxiously wait to go into the studio. We befriended an intern, some twink intern who went to Emerson, and he hyped us up and talked about how “slay” the lineup and the show were going to be. After an hour of waiting, we are escorted through the doors, and make our way through security. We wait in a dim hallway, the room buzzing with anticipation as we are walked one by one to the elevator, and taken into studio 8H. It's a surreal experience sitting in a place you’ve seen on tv so many times. I felt like Nicole Kidman in that AMC ad. 

As the lights begin to dim, the theme music fills the theater and  a small-framed silhouette starts to make its way out of the wings. Timothee ?? 

No—it’s Baby Stormi. 

As she pads her way across the stage of studio 8H I see the apples of Stormi’s cheeks fatten as she breaks out in an impish smile. She points her tiny, grimy little finger straight at me. I feel my heart begin to race and my face pale as Stormi calls out “Mommy, I want to sit there!”

“Go ahead sweetie.” Kylie implores, a smirk blooming on her voluptuous, overfilled lips as she too steps out from the wings. 

Before I even know what's happening,  The rest of the Kardashian clan has materialized right in front of my eyes. My friends and I look around at each other in awe. We can’t believe it's really them. “Oh my god, this is so crazy !! I love keeping up with—” 

“Shut up pleb.” Kourtney cuts me off, her vocal fry causing my ears to start ringing. “Stormi said move.”

Before I can even get up, I feel Kim yanking me by the ponytail and throwing me to the ground. I feel a wet sensation on my face. Is it blood? No, North West spit on me. “Mommy, she smells like public high school and FAFSA.” 

I try to get back up, but Khloe pins me down with her stiletto heel as Kendall curb stomps me on the steps. I blink back tears as security moves to take me away. I thrash and scream as they drag me out the studio doors “Please, I need to see Timmy and The Boys!” 

I bang on the doors to no avail. I was just kicked out of SNL for the Kardiashians. I can just imagine the vacant, yet gaudy smile Kris Jenner wears as she witnesses Phoebe Bridgers singing about killing the bourgeoisie from the front row. I am swelling with rage. She doesn’t get what it's like to always be an angel, but never a god. What does she know about the tiny horse that then became a giant horse before turning back into a tiny horse?? There’s no way she can truly appreciate Julien IJBOL Baker talking about the gaggle of Troye Sivan cosplayers and their “tiny little red undies” to the fullest extent to which it can be enjoyed !!

I need to do something drastic. I need to figure out a way to conjure some sort of divine retribution against the establishment. I need to stop this show. I thought about tweeting something along the lines of “I brought a bomb to 30 Rock '' in order to shut down the show. However, that was quickly vetoed as I refuse to get suspended on that goddamn bird app again.

Then, a metaphorical light bulb turns on above my head. I know what I must do. I must kill myself in front of Lorne Michaels to change the trajectory of his life in order to take down the 49-year-old institution that is Saturday Night Live. I can’t just let them get away with giving my seat to a Kardashian. 

As I ascend up to the roof, I share an elevator ride with Jimmy Fallon. He does his goofy fake laugh. I am more determined in my plans than ever. The entire establishment must go. I stand on the roof, my hair tousled from the wind. I position myself in front of Loren’s office window so he can witness my body in freefall. I take the leap. 

And I splat. Scarlet blood stains the concrete. But the cheers from the studio still echo into the streets as my soul begins to leave my mortal vessel. No. No. NOOO. Why has no one noticed? Why has no one come to put a stop to the madness after my elaborate stunt?? 

Just when I think it can’t get any worse, Travis Barker finds my lifeless body on the sidewalk and begins to play the same drum set on my corpse as he did in Kourtney’s delivery room. Now I am damned to roam the halls of 30 Rock, the sounds of “Yeet Skrrt” echo through the hallways and through my mind as Stormi watches and laughs from my seat.