My addiction to reality television can be traced back to the summer before my junior year of high school. MTV introduced audiences to a groundbreaking unscripted docuseries called The Real World.
The show was a first of its kind. Incorporating six twenty-something “strangers” picked (cast) to live in a house together in a popular US city.
The first season launched in New York City, followed by Los Angeles, but it was the the third season, in San Fransisco, where the show found its voice.
I was fixated on the Puck vs. Pedro conflict; not out yet myself––I was mesmerized by the courage and conviction that Pedro Zamora embodied.
Pedro was the voice of a new generation and network executives realized that they could make just as much money with a fraction of the budget.
The landscape of reality television evolved over the years and continued to exploit willing fame-seekers to whore themselves out on television (I’m still willing to be one of them).
Alas, I’ve finally reached my limit.
The turning point for me was when a New Jersey housewife turned inmate allowed cameras to document her downfall and hopeful rise back to fame.
The reality is that nobody really lives that reality––unless they’re a reality star.
I’m ready for a little truth in my life, in the form of Big Little Secrets.
Bye bye Bravolebrities.
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