My name’s Phil. I’m 46. I’m single. I work for an accounting firm. After a hectic tax season, I finally pulled the trigger on a summer rental in the Hamptons. Not the entire house. Just one of the seven bedrooms. It’s great. There’s a hammock on the porch, a pool, and a shade tree out back where I can read.

Every house has its quirks. This one came with three camera operators, four showrunners, a production schedule, and an on-site legal team. None of that was mentioned on the Airbnb listing. It also came with an ensemble of roommates. There’s 13 of them.

I never saw myself as a Hamptons person. I also never saw myself at the center of a scandal on a Bravo reality show, but here we are. Today, while shopping in town for fresh blueberries, someone accused me of being a chaos agent, of betrayal, of instigating a spat between Kyle and Amanda. But I’m not even a cast member. I’m just a guy reading his book on a float in the pool.

A line producer asked me if I thought one of my roommates, Amanda, was being her “authentic self this season.” This season? I guess I’m not familiar with Amanda’s work. But I do know she’s the one who forgets to restock the fridge with cans of La Croix.

Following an incident involving KJ and Dara that I don’t quite understand, I’ve now become “the moral conscience and emotional backbone” of the show, if you read Instagram comments. Which is weird because I mostly just post pictures of the rhubarb that I grow.

I’m not here to take sides. But I can feel the pressure. I was asked why I thought Kyle and Amanda are splitsville. I don’t know. I just know Kyle hasn’t Venmoed me his half of the electric bill yet.

After morning yoga yesterday, another roommate, Lindsay, called West Wilson “trash” on Instagram for some comments he made. I’m like, that’s rich coming from the girl who took the largest room, pays the smallest share, and has never once taken out the trash. Thursdays are her day. It says so on the magnetic board on the fridge.

The Google Sheet of chores I devised—with push notifications set up—is pretty clear. And here we are a week later and nobody has emptied the dishwasher, nor vacuumed the sand off the living room rug. Have these people not read the lease agreement that they signed?

There’s now a Reddit thread analyzing the passive-aggressive tone of my Google Sheet. Someone named BravosBiatch87 hacked it and now I’m assigned to every chore.

And why am I the only one who participates in the Roomies Group Chat? Doesn’t anyone want some of the rhubarb I grew? Apparently not. On Reddit, this has become known as Rhubarbgate. A subreddit has even raised questions about whether my rhubarb offering is actually me “breadcrumbing” for Bailey just to make CJ jealous.

The consensus seems to be that the rhubarb was a calculated move to isolate CJ socially. It was not. I just had excess rhubarb.

My parents are coming this weekend from Ohio. A junior showrunner thinks when my dad sees Bailey in a one-piece in the pool it’ll introduce a steamy new angle, ripe for viral content. But I just want to take my parents to the goat farm.

Another wrinkle: Apparently, my parents cannot sleep in the guesthouse beyond the infinity pool because “that’s where we do our confessional interviews.” My mother has already asked whether everyone would like her famous potato salad. But the producers are concerned this could be interpreted as taking sides.

Yesterday, I got pulled into a mood-lit room with candles, incense, and accent pillows on a leather couch. I was like, “I love what you’ve done to the garage.” They just wanted me to talk about what happened in the hot tub last night after Kyle went to bed.

I got a sneak peak of the next season. The cameras have captured six arguments, three breakups, two reunions, and one surprise engagement. Not a second of my rhubarb made the final cut.

This isn’t the summer I envisioned so I’m thinking of renting out my room. DM me if you’re interested. It comes with an en-suite bathroom, pool privileges, and several long-running feuds I do not understand.

Maybe it’s time for me to find another house. On another island. Where is Love Island?