PHOTOGRAPH BY RICK ROWELL / ABC / GETTY

It was a Monday night. A casting-director friend had set me up on a date with a girl named Sarah. I was excited—my friend had told me that she was sending a car to pick me up. I figured this must be an expensive place we were going, so I dressed nice. Just before eight o'clock, a limousine pulled up in front of my house. Fancy, I thought. The limo contained around twenty other men, all dressed really well, and all very buff, with handsome faces. They kept saying things like "She's so pretty," and "I wonder who she'll choose tonight." I was confused. Maybe I'd been set up on a group date? Maybe this was a very trendy Uber Pool? I heard the doors lock, and a voice from the front seat told us to prepare an introduction and a talent.

As I tried to think of a talent I had (maybe juggling? I could kind of juggle), we arrived at a large house with a camera crew in the driveway. This should have been my first red flag. Sarah stood outside, greeting the men one by one. I was jealous already—who were these other dudes? The rest of us waited in the limo and introduced ourselves. The guy sitting across from me was named Chris. The guy next to me said his name was Chris B. Then Chris B. told me that my name was Chris D. I said, "No, my name is Ralph." He told me, "That's very funny, Chris D. Now go introduce yourself to Sarah and do a talent." Then he pushed me out of the limo and I had to juggle for Sarah.

When I told her my name was Ralph, she hugged me and whispered, "You're Chris D. now." Inside the house, we all wandered around drinking and making small talk. I asked one of the cameramen what the hell was going on, and he told me that it was time for my "confessional." He sat me down and asked what I thought of Sarah so far. I said she was very pretty, but that I was scared and wanted to go home. He said, "Why don't you say something like 'She's radiant, but I'm afraid of losing myself to love’?” "No thanks," I said.

Later, we were all asked to stand silently on some bleachers while Sarah gave roses to those of us she liked. I didn't want a rose. I wanted to get out of there and forget this ever happened. After a half-dozen other names, Sarah called out "Chris D.!" I didn't move. The man who had been overseeing this whole event, Chris H., came over and said, "Chris D., Sarah called your name." I said, "My name is Ralph." Chris H. said, "That's funny, Chris D.," and then he tased me.

I was kept on for weeks. Eventually, I befriended a man named Chris E., who told me that his real name was Phil. Phil advised me to keep a low profile—that I was lucky I'd somehow made it this far without having my memory erased. Phil also said that, from what he'd been able to figure out, we were on a reality show called "The Bachelorette," and that we had been picked to help Sarah find true love. "But that's not how you find true love," I said. Phil put his hand over my mouth. "Don't let them hear you say that," he whispered.

"I have kids," Phil once told me, "kids I haven't seen in years. The announcer always just calls me the 'single father' bachelor. I usually make it pretty far and then get brought back for the next season with a new haircut and a new name. Please, if you get out of here, tell my kids I miss them."

We would all go on group dates sometimes, and that was when I would try to escape. Once we were on horseback, riding through a vineyard, and I tried to break off from the pack. My plan was to find a highway and hitchhike back to my house, but Sarah and the producers caught up with me and Sarah and I ended up making out in a grotto.

At one point, I attempted to send a secret distress signal during a confessional. While I talked about Sarah, I blinked "S.O.S." in Morse code. Little did I know the confessionals were heavily edited, and it ended up looking like I was blinking "TRUE LOVE" over and over.

Then, one night, Sarah didn't give me a rose. She took me aside to tell me how much I meant to her, but that she had to let me go. I was so relieved that I cried. Sarah thought I was sad and tried to comfort me, but I was overwhelmed with happiness. I was going home!

How wrong I was. I'm writing this now from the private island prison where all the failed "Bachelorette" contestants are kept. Once in a while, one of us is taken off the island to become the next Bachelor. I've been training a pigeon to deliver messages, so I'm hopeful this letter will reach someone in the outside world.

I have to go now. They're getting the cameras ready to film "Bachelor in Paradise." Please, if you're reading this, send help.