I’m still genuinely surprised by three things.

First—that he actually wrote the book.

Second—how absolutely horrendous the writing is. Not just rough. Not unpolished. Not “needs an editor.” It’s incoherent, self-indulgent, rambling, and painfully unaware of itself. The kind of writing that confuses volume with truth and repetition with credibility. Pages of circular thinking, emotional monologues, and grievance masquerading as insight.

But the third thing?
That’s the one that still stops me cold.

He was dumb enough to write it, publish it, and publicly advertise it while a restraining order and NO CONTACT orders were already in place.

Let that sink in.

A person legally ordered to stop contact, stop harassment, and stop escalation decides the best possible move is to print his own narrative, package it as victimhood, and broadcast it to the world like it’s evidence in his favor.

You couldn’t script a clearer example of self-incrimination wrapped in delusion.

This isn’t bravery.
It isn’t accountability.
It certainly isn’t insight.

It’s what happens when someone believes their perception matters more than the law. When they confuse attention with validation and think telling their story louder somehow overrides court orders, documented history, and basic reality.

What’s truly wild isn’t just the arrogance—it’s the complete lack of self-awareness. The belief that publishing a book magically erases legal boundaries. That once something is bound, titled, and sold, it becomes untouchable. Legitimate. Protected.

It doesn’t.

The book doesn’t expose anyone else.
It doesn’t clarify the truth.
It doesn’t vindicate anything.

It exposes exactly what has always been visible:
a compulsive need to control narrative, an inability to self-regulate, and a stunning willingness to leave a paper trail proving it.

And somehow—despite warnings, orders, and consequences already in motion—he still hit publish.

Questions That Linger

If you were actually trying to understand your own behavior—not justify it—these are the questions worth sitting with:

• What outcome did you honestly believe would come from publishing this book while under active legal orders?
• At what point did you convince yourself that telling your story publicly didn’t count as contact, escalation, or harassment?
• Did you believe the format of a book would somehow shield you from accountability?
• Who did you think this would persuade—judges, attorneys, the public, or just yourself?
• Were you writing to reflect, or writing to control how others see you?
• If the goal was healing or truth, why ignore every boundary put in place to stop further harm?
• What part of “no contact” felt optional to you?
• And finally—was hitting “publish” about being heard… or about proving you couldn’t stop?

Those aren’t rhetorical questions.
They’re the ones your actions already answered.

At this point, it feels right to let history’s greatest observers of human behavior weigh in—because both Mark and this book manage to prove them correct at the same time. John Wayne once said, “Life is hard. It’s harder when you’re stupid,” and Einstein famously warned that “Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity—and I’m not sure about the universe.” Together, Mark and his book operate as a living footnote to both ideas: a chaotic blend of confidence without competence, certainty without self-awareness, and volume without substance. The writing lurches from grievance to grandiosity, from accusation to absolution, stitched together with contradictions and self-importance, until the point is buried under its own momentum. If this were intentional satire, it would be impressive. Unfortunately, it isn’t. It’s nonfiction. And somehow—despite every warning, boundary, and consequence—he still hit publish anyway.