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.

NOTEBOOK: Simplistic storytelling on TV news pushing nation to war
My bad teen poetry suggests I’ve always hungered for missing love
If online attack confirms your biases too nicely, it just might be a fake
Dying Phelps’ anti-gay cult is vile and wrong, but I don’t hate him
Brutal truth is that we will never be able to fix all of world’s evils
Does change really come quickly? Or do we finally accept the truth?
Mass. principal cancels honors night so losers won’t have hurt feelings
Painful longing is too powerful to express heart’s anguish in words
AUDIO: Spark between two hearts can be beautiful mystery of love