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.
I am angry that life doesn’t work the way I once learned it should
Let’s reconnect with each other, not fall into dystopian Metaverse
Advice to fast food restaurant execs: stop ‘innovating,’ do the basics right
Hidden crisis of missing intimacy leaves many ‘together all alone’
Conservatives have lost their way as few defend individual freedom
I’m waiting for life to begin, but I’m feeling lost and alone tonight
I’m trying to do something new — and I don’t know what to call it
Being alone allows us to indulge our worst flaws and avoid change
If Court reverses Roe v. Wade, we’re facing a social tsunami