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.

The Alien Observer: I’m not going to change — and you’re not, either
‘Just do exactly what we say to do; it’s for your own good, you know’
Sudden realization of hunger for taste of kindred soul is killing me
Do great dreams really come true or do they just serve to haunt us?
We like to think we’re complex, but personality gurus pegged me
What is your measure of success? For me, meaning keeps changing