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.

There’s magic in the dark solitude and quiet stillness after midnight
Nature’s renewal and growth boost my hope for my own life each year
We’re all a little crazy; I worry about those who don’t know it
I’m writing a book — and I’ll be talking about it as it progresses
Even when we’re right, criticism stems from our own insecurities
Politicians have no right dictating the menu of your kid’s Happy Meal
‘Vote iPhone in 2012’: Let’s bring democracy to the phone world
Do we choose to be free people? Or will we live as slaves to mobs?