The Bachelor

I feel no particular shame about being a girl who watches The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. And I want to take a moment and apologize to anyone who I've told that I watch these shows, "but not really.. like, I don't believe in them." I am sorry. This is a lie. 

I don't believe in them so much that I would ever sign up to go on one. And I don't believe in them so much that if I had a friend who signed up I wouldn't mock them endlessly. Even if they "won". But I am a part of Bachelor Nation. Whatever that means. It is part of my identity and I have to move on. 

It is because of this part of myself that I found myself attempting to watch Ready For Love hosted by Eva Longoria one afternoon during my senior year of college, during its brief, brief run on Hulu. And it is because of that day, that I wrote this poem.



These women are in boxes.

And I'm sitting on my sofa


The fuck is going on America?

These women have gone crazy

And I'm sitting on my sofa


What do we think love is again?



I've been watching The Bachelor.

Where the women have gone crazy

Where the women say

“I'm in love”

3 weeks after they've met this asshole

Who, by the way, is always a white asshole

That works out a lot while covered in oil

And the women drunkenly squabble

When he says catchwords

Like family

And commitment

And soulmate.

And no one cares that he never says the important words

Like multiple orgasms.



I tried watching Ready for Love

That new show

Where they put the women in boxes

For the men to choose from

In public

Like they’re grocery shopping.

And the boxes can also disappear underground

Like foreshadowing.

Like saying “Sweetheart if he doesn't pick you

You'll die.”

Like saying, “Sweetheart we built you a glass coffin

Just in case this doesn't go your way


We can still want to see your pretty face.”


I watch while

Hosts say things like

Most eligible

While matchmakers sit

Being catty

And flirting with each other

Making it look like

Love is just a game after all

So long as you're beautiful enough to compete.


And I'm sitting on my sofa

Wearing sweatpants

And tank tops.

And thinking

The fuck?


I mean, I believe in love too

But not this.

I mean, I want love too

But I won't die if I don’t get it.

Won't put myself in a box

And turn myself into a shadow

That can only be filled in by an oily asshole

Because that's not love, right?


I'm getting old

And people wonder if I wanna get married.

Ask me

If I wanna have babies

And be happy.

Wouldn't I like to live in a box

with a broad shouldered man who smiles a lot?

And I'll admit I wonder too.

Those shoulders are good, and the abs are good

And if there’s a little oil,

Who’s complaining?



I sit on my sofa and feel the blood running through my body.

Feel that

I'm bigger than love like that.

That I’m worth more.

And I hear myself

Whisper to the TV

“My sweethearts,

You are too.

Believe it.”