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.

Intolerance isn’t just an American thing; it’s common to all humans
Lousy personal choices are at root of most of our problems
We can’t really change people, even if they offer us the control
My own question now faced me: ‘Would a healthy person do that?’
Political attitudes about race prove we’re still living in a tribal world
Existing biases dictate how you see grand jury decision in Ferguson, Mo.
‘Breaking Cat News’ is amazing art and evidence of dreams come true
Rodney Dangerfield wasn’t funny, but tenacity built career as comic