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.

A bully picked a fight that night — and now I’m dreaming about it
Why are U.S. troops going into Uganda to take sides in a civil war?
Shingle reminds me what it felt like for someone to believe in me
To become extraordinary people, we can’t behave in ordinary ways
Goodbye, Merlin (2003-2022)
Before you can rescue other folks, you have to learn to save yourself
UPDATE: No, I really haven’t died; I’ve just lost my sense of purpose
In a saner world, we would never hear a word about Jussie Smollett
FRIDAY FUNNIES