I Didn't Come Here to Make Friends by Courtney Robertson Page A

a soggy Subway sandwich. I ate it because I was starving. And I had nothing else to do for another two hours.
    Next up, I met with a lady private investigator who bombarded me with the most personal questions yet:
    “Have you ever gotten a DUI?”
    No.
    “Have you ever been arrested?”
    I took a deep breath and decided to come clean. In sixth grade, Sara and I had stolen Coca-Cola shirts with polar bears on them from Robinsons-May and we got busted. I was banned for life from the department store chain. I thought my mom was going to smack me when she picked me up, but she was surprisingly cool about the whole thing and only grounded me for three months.
    The lady PI looked bored.
    “Do you have any nude photos?”
    Um, yes, I thought, panicking. I had taken hundreds of them. But I didn’t tell her the eye-popping number. I just blushed and said my ex had some.
    “What’s the raciest picture he has?”
    “Oh, he would never sell those.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes, definitely,” I said, not totally convinced.
    “Do you have a sex tape?”
    “Yes.” I had at least three. In fact, one was with an ex, who told me after I broke up with him that he couldn’t stop watching it. I said that was really creepy and to delete it immediately. He promised he would. (Foreshadow alert #1!)
    “Do you have any enemies?”
    “Not that I know of.” (Foreshadow alert #2!)
    After the inquisition was finished, I had to get my blood drawn to make sure I didn’t have any STDs.
    She wanted to know if I was on the pill. I’d been on the pill since I was sixteen years old. My mom actually took me to get them, if you can believe it, but it was to help cure my pepperoni pimple face, definitely not an endorsement to engage in sexual activity.
    After the blood test, the day was finally over. Many of the women had flown in from faraway places like LaFollette, Tennessee, or Kissimmee, Florida, so they stayed overnight in the hotel. But since I only lived a few miles away, I drove home, exhausted and in shock. Wow, what was that? I thought.
    As soon as I made it through my front door, I walked to my toilet and puked. I wasn’t sure what it was. After I threw up, I sat on my bathroom floor stressed out and confused. My body was literally having an adverse reaction to all of this.
    I must have done okay because two days later I got a call from a casting producer and was told I passed Finals Weekend and officially chosen to be on The Bachelor . I was sent a gigantic, inch-thick contract and told to sign it and drop it off at the production offices as soon as possible. Instead of being thrilled, I felt a sense of dread. I just couldn’t commit. For the next two weeks, I blew off their frantic calls and e-mails as I agonized whether or not to be on the show. I talked to my sister, who, of course, as a huge fan of The Bachelor said to go for it. I talked to my dad, who was really excited and thought it was a great idea. Even my agent, Steve, wasn’t worried about the temporary hiatus from the modeling world. “I don’t think it will help your career, but it won’t hurt it,” he told me. (Foreshadow alert #3!) I scoured Ben’s Twitter looking for signs that he was “the one” and still I couldn’t decide. I made a pro and con list, which included:
     
• PROS •

• CONS •
Falling in love

Heart smashed into pieces
Making new friends

Catfights
Travel

Isolation, lack of privacy
Fairy-tale ending

Humiliated on national television
    Only two people were totally negative about the show. My best guy friend, Matt, didn’t think I should do it. And, not surprisingly, my mom was vehemently against me going on the show. My sister had shown her the Hometown Date episode from Ashley’s season and my mom thought Ben wasn’t my type, and she was leery of his mom, Barbara.
    “You don’t need a television show to get dates, Courtney,” she scolded. I think she was still holding out hope for Jesse and me to make it work. “Do you even want