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.

FRIDAY FUNNIES
When love finally dies, it’s like a fever breaks and the pain is gone
Achievement or scam? Designer invents perfume you can’t smell
Christmas marks God’s attempt to connect us to himself and others
Dogs, cats and children remind me of all the joy in small things
When the night is dark and quiet, my open heart expects a miracle
I kinda like Rand Paul, but I don’t support anybody as ruler-in-chief
Will those on the left upset about Halliburton now go after Obama?