When I was a little boy, I went to sleep almost every night making up stories in my head. I was always the hero.
By the time I was old enough to start liking girls and wanting their attention — about fifth grade, it seems — my stories were mostly about being heroic for a girl. I had a crush on a classmate named Wendy, so she was the metaphorical princess and I was the knight on a white horse.
I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was setting a pattern for much of my life.
I wanted to feel special. I craved the attention and admiration of one woman. Over the years, the identity of that woman changed. of course. When I did something I thought might impress her, I wanted the crowds to love me, but only because that meant she would see.
I wanted her to think I was special. I wanted her to love me for that.

Donald Trump is no conservative; he’s an immoral, narcissistic liar
Goodbye, Emily (2009-2015)
Tools don’t make you great artist, but tools can change how you feel
Capitol rioters weren’t SS troops, just woeful losers living a fantasy
I’m still the kid who might burn your clubhouse if you cross me
When people identify with their masters, freedom is hard to accept
Dirty little secret: Politicians have incentive to whip up your fears