Feel sorry for me, world. My heart is so big. You wouldn’t understand. It’s so big it drowns out the sound of my kids begging me to stop trashing their mom on Facebook. It’s so big it makes me forget restraining orders, court orders, and every professional who told me to do the work.

Sorry? Oh, I do sorry real well:

• Sorry looks like coercing my son into signing a fake “contract” denying his own diagnosis.
• Sorry looks like laughing while my buddy screamed “F*** Joe Biden!” at a children’s basketball game.
• Sorry looks like vanishing when it’s time to pay for uniforms, medical care, or basic child support.

But let me really show you my masterclass in “sorry”:

• Sorry that you filmed me throwing a tantrum, so I knocked the phone out of your hand and threatened you.
• Sorry that you caught me lying, so I turned it on you and told everyone you’re crazy.
• Sorry I missed the games, but you didn’t constantly remind me—even though you send calendar invites with all the info.
• Sorry I don’t feel like paying for braces, because… well, I just don’t want to.
• Sorry I burned my house down—but hey, better that than lose it to the IRS and go to jail for not paying support.
• Sorry I put a tracking device on our son so I could randomly show up where you are.
• Sorry I was arrested for violating the restraining order, but you made me do it.
• Sorry I stole the batgirl’s hat, but Russ was wearing one and I couldn’t stand being shown up.
• Sorry I refuse to do the evaluations, but I know they’ll see who I am and what I’m really about.
• Sorry that most of my own family won’t talk to me, but that’s because they’re the problem.
• Sorry that coaches from Nate’s team keep asking what’s wrong with me—I make promises, demands, and declarations of my “greatness,” but when I do show up, it’s late, disruptive, or both.
• Sorry that I can’t spell wemon correctly, but I don’t think they’re relevant enough to care.
• Sorry that I am the chosen one by God Himself, and He told me to speak His words to you.
• Sorry… so very sorry… always sorry.

The truth? Every “sorry” is just a disguise—gaslighting dressed up as repentance. A balloon full of hot air I keep floating in front of my followers while my kids get crushed under the weight of my excuses.

So yes, world—my big heart hurts. But not because of what I’ve done. It hurts because you finally see through me.

Dear Mark,

I forgive you.

I forgive you for being too honest for the courts to handle.
I forgive you for having such a big heart that it can’t be contained by restraining orders, court orders, or basic spelling rules. (Wemon? Who cares, bro—you’re chosen by God, grammar’s beneath you.)
I forgive you for knocking phones out of hands when people “provoke” you by recording your tantrums.
I forgive you for stealing hats, missing games, and refusing to pay for braces—because, let’s face it, your greatness is payment enough.
I forgive you for the house fire, because you’re a visionary. Why let the IRS or child support collectors take it when you can take it down yourself in flames?
I forgive you for refusing those pesky evaluations—those doctors just don’t get you, chosen one. They’d only write down things you actually said and did. Unfair.

Most of all, Mark, I forgive you for being misunderstood. Your chaos isn’t chaos—it’s courage. Your lies aren’t lies—they’re “alternative truths.” Your absence isn’t abandonment—it’s destiny.

Never change, Mark.
The world doesn’t deserve you.

With eternal love and admiration,
Mark

P.S. Don’t forget: you’re the victim here. Always.