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.

Narcissists teach their victims they aren’t allowed to have needs
Giving up politics left me flat broke; it’s time to earn some money again
For rest of my life, I’ll constantly re-interpret mother I didn’t know
Rodney Dangerfield wasn’t funny, but tenacity built career as comic
Money is a tool, and it’s useless without motivation and vision
People don’t confront ideas today; they lob bumper stickers at others
Happy birthday to the monkeys; we’re marking two years today
‘Conservative’ and ‘liberal’ should refer to temperament, not politics
Not satire this time: In New Zealand, one model cries discrimination