Brandeis runs off to say hi to some senator she knows, which makes Blair's eyes go all starry, and then when Serena arrives, she gets to gloat. "Do you see that gorgeous blonde in Proenza Schouler talking to those high-profile politicians? That's my best friend Brandeis! She knows most of them personally." Serena is wearing this fucked up pony braid -- overthought, messy and... rustic, like imagine if Nigella Lawson did your hair -- that I thought was gross and postmodern at first, but grew to love. Serena sort of laughs at Blair for making friends based on political connections (what's PR Rule #1?), but I mean, that's B. And this also is B:

"They must really love her, because when she introduced us, they seemed thrilled to meet me. They even asked if we were sisters!" SO GROSS and SO CORRECT. S doesn't hear the coded nasty whoredom implicit in this equation (politics + sex = nihilistically weird Bret Ellis shit, every time, just like trust-fund kids) and just goes, "Meanwhile, my movie star boyfriend is a movie star, and my boyfriend, so boyfriend movie star friendstar boymoney" and finishes up with, "He's over at the bar, getting me a drink right now. I feel so lucky, he's so attentive!" Blair, awesomely, returns the serve like McEnroe: "Doesn't take much, does it?"

I mean, wow. The rest of the fight -- in which B basically calls her a whore a bunch of times -- doesn't even matter, because that is one of the Things We Don't Say. Serena's need to have her existence acknowledged is as desperate as it is understandable: The only word that ever sent her to war was "irrelevant." When you're basically a walking Times Square of flashing billboard signifiers -- SEX! BOOBS! TALL! BLONDE! RICH! MAGICAL! -- with what's admittedly a shifting cacophony of nonsense behind it, you need people to look you in the eye. This isn't where the fight starts, it's where the fight has already ended. Everything else is just zombies. Blair runs off, with as usual no idea how far she's already pushed S, and spots ~♥~RPATTZ~♥~ pissing... In a potted ficus, directly outside the men's room. She runs off, terrified and pained and a little bit thrilled, to take care of it.