Zara: An Introspection


Oh, hello. I’m sorry I didn’t see you there.


Yes, I am a bit distracted. I’m sorry. I’m just out on a break. I work at the coffee shop down the street, you see.


What, you know me from somewhere? I mean, maybe. But likely from somewhere I’d rather forget.

Yes, yes. That cancelled season of the BacheloretteSim. A disaster. A complete disaster. Most things in life are a disaster, you know. It just so happened that this one was televised. Not that big of a deal.


I suppose I could be a reality star now, ala Kardashian. I’d rather be a barista.

Yes, really.

Maybe if you knew the true story behind that minuscule season, you’d understand.

I have a long break. Come walk with me?


I love the outdoors. That’s something that the producers didn’t really understand. But they didn’t understand a lot.


When I arrived at the house, I was instantly horrified by the lack of space. All crisp marble and empty walls; there was nothing warm or intimate about the place. You know, they use a lot of lighting tricks to make the place look warm; they stuff the furniture from all over the house into one room to make it look cozy. Even their ambiance is artificial.


The second thing I noticed? The men. The men were handsome, sure, but first of all, it seemed like there were hundreds of them. Second of all, they looked more artificial then the staging of the ballroom.


Some of them were okay, I guess. By which I mean that they were charming. They knew that the way to a woman’s heart is by being a gentleman, not a douche. That’s most of what the producers showed, the charming part. From them, not from me. They really played up my angry face, didn’t they.


The rest of the men just expected me to fall over them because they had big muscles and deep voices. Not a chance.


The producers didn’t like that I wasn’t persuaded by the charms of the men they chosen. They didn’t like that I was so unreceptive to the men. So one of them stayed by my side nearly the whole night, feeding me wine, till I was drunk enough off my ass to be receptive to anyone.



There was a lot they didn’t show.


Like the guy that followed me into the bathroom. I probably wouldn’t have remembered it, had I not seen the footage later. No one came to ask him to leave, despite knowing that I wasn’t of a mind to do it.

He didn’t do anything—another guy came in (what was it about guys and the women’s restroom that night?)—but he could have.

Any one of them could have. I was surrounded.




Between the stuffy interior and the claustrophobic press of suitors, I was only one night in and already going insane.

Can you really blame me for what happened, then?


The producers didn’t show it; it made the men look bad, and painted me like a victim. They didn’t want either of those things.



But I’m sure you can imagine what followed from this—he was telling me what he was going to do with my “tits” when I chose him. But I was bound and determined, even while drunk, that he would never touch any part of me.



Everyone left pretty quickly.

They didn’t show that, did they? Just me waking up the next morning, dreary eyed and hung over, questioning what had happened the night before. And then they showed me storming offset. Quite an opening (and closing) montage.

They like to make the girl the crazy one. And, as much as I felt manipulated, I must admit that I gave them plenty of fodder to portray me that way.


I’d rather be sane and behind the counter of a coffee shop than back there. Like I said, everything in life is a disaster. Most likely, you’re the one making it that way. But better to be able to move on than to be forced to dwell on it, yeah?


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