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out, sister!
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    Lesson learned: Let’s get this (pity) party started!
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DAY 4. 5:25 P.M.
The Announcement
    E veryone knows now.
    This morning, I awoke to a phone call from our publicist telling me that later today she’d be issuing a statement confirming my breakup. I didn’t bother to proofread the statement she emailed me, considering just the thought of it makes me want to vomit. It’s strange enough to have a publicist, let alone have my breakup be “officially announced.” I feel like Khloé Kardashian right now, not in the lavishly rich and enviable way, but in a get-ready-for-everyone-to-judge kind of way.
    The truth is, though our split may come as a shock to strangers, it’s been a long time coming. For the nine months we were engaged, I’d say four of them were blissfully happy, about three of them were filled with tense ups and downs, and the remaining two? Well, those two months were pure torture. We had gone from completely smitten and in love to hating each other. I guess that’s what happens when you’re in a roller-coaster relationship filled with the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. My relationship changed so drastically in such a short amount of time, just like my life has.
    Once upon a time, I was just a normal girl from Atlanta, Georgia, who’d been plucked from obscurity and put on a dating show. But now I was a “public figure” who has gone from single to engaged and back to single, but it’s not just my Facebook status that has changed, it’s my identity as well. For one, my social media has taken on a life of its own. I used to hope that the number of likes on my Instagram photos would hit double digits, now I just hope my thousands of followers don’t notice that I’ve used a filter to cover up my latest blemish. Secondly, I now have to be aware of those blemishes whenever I go out in public because I am always at risk of being snapped by a lurking paparazzi. I can’t even believe I’m saying the word “paparazzi” in reference to myself, but it’s true. Every so often, I’ll see a photo in a magazine of me and Number Twenty-Six grocery shopping, exiting a restaurant, or walking the dog. Sometimes I spot the shooter, but usually I didn’t even notice they were hiding in the bushes snapping away.
    From strangers coming up to me on the street (or at the mall) to free meals and red carpets, all the notoriety made me feel uncomfortable. Though I was flattered that people were so supportive, I didn’t feel worthy of the attention. It wasn’t as if I was a person with talent to be admired, or performing a service to making the world a better place. Instead, I was just a random girl who had made out with multiple men on national television. That was it. While I struggled with the attention, Number Twenty-Six relished it. He thrived in the spotlight. This didn’t bother me at first. In fact, I had wanted it for him. I wanted him to have the spotlight that he had missed out on all of his life since his younger brother had gained notoriety as a college and then professional athlete. But, with the help of one reality television show and a very public engagement, he was no longer second fiddle, and I couldn’t have been happier for him.
    We had agreed to balance our newfound fame by laying down some rules when it came to fans and photos. I guess I should say he decided to lay down some rules. Rule number one was that I was not to take photos with other men. Though I found this request a bit alarming, the fact that 99.7% of people wanting photos were young girls made it an easy rule to follow, along with the fact that I didn’t care about taking photos with men and had just gotten engaged before millions of viewers—the blinding ring on my finger serving as a convenient reminder.
    Rule number two was mutually agreed upon: no photos at dinner. We decided that dinner was a time for the two of us to enjoy, and any fan photos could wait until after.
    These rules worked for