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.

Friday’s article will be delayed
Dirty little secret: Politicians have incentive to whip up your fears
Maybe looming defense cuts mean U.S. has to quit invading countries
Why do Birmingham taxpayers give $500,000 yearly to college sports?
Our voluntary decisions can lead to a new beginning for America
Let’s try a candid conversation just for the few who want to hear
The moon represents what I seek, but words are all I can offer now
Shouldn’t you believe everything you see posted on social media?
My bad teen poetry suggests I’ve always hungered for missing love