Behind The @avr_is_sorry IG Account

The idea of a content creator apologizing online has always fascinated me.

A content creator—someone viewed mostly through the hyper-edited lens of their content—is often held in godlike regard by their audience. It’s easy to forget, especially for those with parasocial inclinations, that the creator is human too: with human errors, vices, and all.

What fascinates me most is the science behind it. How come some get away with it? How come others can’t help but throw oil on the flames, burning their careers to the ground? And how come some just go on a break, only to return, embraced by their audience as if nothing happened?

Another aspect that admittedly speaks to me is the need for public approval. When a YouTuber apologizes, is it because they genuinely see the err in their ways? Or is it because they wish to be spared from the guillotine?

You can’t please everyone. Like, literally. There will always be at least one miserable person who hates you simply because their own life sucks. Nothing you can do about it. How does that one saying go? “If no one hates you, you must be doing something wrong”?

And yet they do it anyway. They pull out the ole’ ukulele and start singing about how they’re not the bad guy they’re being made out to be.

I can relate to that feeling—deep separation anxiety when it comes to someone dear to me, the fear they’ll go away if I say or do the wrong thing. I’d like to believe it’s mostly gone now, but somewhere in this villainous, chaotic self, I’d like to explore that idea artistically: the idea of someone so afraid of being seen as the bad guy that he apologizes for everything. Even crimes he didn’t commit, all for the sake of optics.

A picture by the clinically insane Louis Wain, currently used as the account's pfp. It always stuck with me—The idea that you finally found happiness because [b]everyone[/b] loves you, when in reality, it's impossible for everyone to love you. That implies happiness can't ever truly be achieved, at least not with that mindset. I could be overthinking it—I probably am—but the paradoxical nature of the statement always messed me up, emotionally speaking.

The first video was filmed during a sleep-deprived manic episode in my car — and it missed the mark. Over-the-top, over-edited, over-everything. It followed a theme, sure — attention span splitscreen, TikTok fast-forward filter, Vine booms — all modern trends that will go out of fashion as quickly as they came.

That vision missed the mark. So, I adjusted.

I liked the tongue-in-cheek essence of it, but I wanted something more authentic. So, I slowed the pace, made it feel more human. I remembered I had an iPhone 4 I found in the trash (long ass story) and decided to shoot the next videos with it, to give them a more raw, authentic look.

A story was born — about how I became homeless (a ramification of the first video)—explaining the sudden downgrade in quality. I tore up an old shirt, threw on a work jacket twice my size, and made sure to film it before my next barbershop apointment.

This utilizing of opportunities became a hallmark:

I fall off my bike and break a tooth → “I fought a homeless guy and I’m sorry.”

Notice a funny ‘floor is wet’ sign → “I’m sorry I vandalized this sign.”

Every new gag became another apology video opportunity.

My current favorite is the HasanAbi one, where I apologize for the Collargate incident on HIS behalf—only to suddenly showcase my missing teeth. Talk about a non sequitur. A perfect blend of authenticity, absurdism, and probably the closest I’ve gotten to the original vision.

I’m more or less happy with the concept, but something’s missing. More absurdity? More realism? Maybe it’s not funny at all and I’m just literally insane. I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out if I keep going.

For now, I’m getting a kick out of this premise. In the future, I might parody real creators’ apology videos—or even reenact the scandals themselves.