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.

I’m still hungry for healthy love that my 5-year-old self craved
Tell me the music you listen to and that’ll reveal a lot about you
Ignorant economic reporting doesn’t help an equally ignorant public
Is it abuse to force atypical kids to conform to norms of society?
Autumn scents send subtle signals every year that it’s time for change
Maturity asked me to learn that I’d never win certain arguments
Some people hate their enemies so badly that fairness doesn’t matter
Noise of culture isn’t evil, but it drowns out what really matters