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.

Anonymous attacker hit me hard, but I can’t let coward change me
FRIDAY FUNNIES
Maturity sees world’s ugliness with more melancholy than anger
Trendy ‘anti-racists’ don’t realize they’ve been conned by Marxists
Taking responsibility for mistakes is foreign concept in many lawsuits
How can we be lonely while we’re surrounded by billions of people?
Local politics isn’t a Frank Capra movie; it’s every man for himself