I watched yesterday, riveted.

I watched that balloon floating away and imagined the worst.

I cried.

I was furious with those who made cynical jokes on Twitter, who doubted, who speculated fraud.

I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I put myself on the line for you.

I shushed my children while I followed the plight of your own.

And I think it’s pretty clear now that you faked it.

You faked the potentially horrible, tragic death of your own son for publicity. You called in the police and the news helicopters, you pulled resources away from those who might have needed them.

And now you’re caught. You’re not a brilliant inventor. You’re not a hero. You’re just a slimy footnote in tabloid history, up there with Kato Kaelin, the runaway bride, and Mini-Me peeing on the carpet.

Your children will have to live, forever, with the legacy of this. It will follow them for the rest of their lives. And they will hate you for it.

That’s probably punishment enough.

Although if you didn’t fake it – if you really didn’t know where your son was – and yet you still alerted the media before the police?

You still f*cking suck.