Anyway, still lying in bed and from the infinite comforts of her internal monologue, Trista tells us, "I've been here for six weeks and it's finally coming to an end." Word up, voice of a loyal (or getting paid to be here) generation. She floats down the ever-bending, undiagrammable Sentence River, in which she cops to being both "happy" and "sad" about the next steps in her decision. Now she lies in bed wearing her Smart Glasses and reading diligently from Hit The Moot Button: A Guide To Reality-Show Twist Endings That Twist Too Late, continuing, "The person I'm most sexually attracted to is Charlie." The color sepia leaps out of my Crayola 64, jams itself into the sharpener on the back of the box (because only in this fantasy sequence in which my crayons come to life does that freakin' sharpener actually work, crummy thing), and proceeds to smear itself all over my fourteen-inch recapping television on my desk for the ensuing montage of Charlie-and-Trista- sitting-in-a-sepia-tree, K-I-S-S-E-P-I-A. They have a "connection" that grows every second. We relive the night in Cabo, when Charlie leans in and tells Trista, "You're glowing." Of course she's glowing; the production staff has drenched them in plutonium like it's Gatorade and they're the team that just won The Big Game. It all took place in The Gauzy Past. We get it. Now stow away from the color gels until you're doing a stage production of Miss Saigon and you're in need of a garish Vietnamese sunset.
In the kitchen and in the present now, the director gives itself (for truly the cobblers and creators of this action have not yet evolved far enough to assume a gender-specific form) over to a bit of a Beckett-esque moment, as Trista stands with her face in her hands and a towel on her head, waiting for a bagel to pop out of the toaster. The bagel pops out of the toaster. Let us put cream cheese on the bagel. Yes, let's. Stage direction: They do not move.
That was a Beckett reference, right up there. Damn, I'm pretentious. And thinking about having some delightful cereal.
Trista further bemoans her non-Utah state of monogamous love, reminding us, "I would so like to be with both of them. But it's just not possible." Because in tricky matters of the heart, it's best to be regimented by the hard and fast rules of a game show. That makes intuitive sense to me. Anyone? We're back to the past as we remember Trista's earliest interactions with Rhymin' (His rhymes often scare/ Even more so drenched in sepia/ But when it comes to Charlie's hair/ Well, I find that much creepy-a). Trista's voice-over reminds us that "when he comes out of his shell, he's this witty character," and this assertion is backed up by the seen-ad-nauseum sequence of Rhymin' begging for booty and telling the driver of the limo in Seattle to get them back to the Fantasy Suite in a hurry. Which, fine, whatever. I already said I thought it was kind of amusing. But "witty"? Isn't that word generally reserved for the pithy words culled from the great, bored minds of those who sit around drawing rooms and speak of Wildean things like art and dandies and "oh, isn't that just the most delightful frock"? Is Rhymin' any of those things to any of you?