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.
Friend’s sudden death reminds me that love is all we have at the end
Right of secession? In a sane world, we could talk about it in 2011 without talk of slavery
Surreal dream wakes, shakes me; which is reality, which is dream?
Learning to be an emotional man helped me to overcome numb past
I’d forgotten what I said about her necklace, but she hadn’t forgotten
Economic and moral ignorance is at root of fast food worker walkout
Slow death of painful past leaves me trapped in fog of depression
What kind of hypocrite gives advice but won’t practice what he preaches?
Best ways for man to love woman flow from how he lives every day