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.

The more I understand humans, the less I really comprehend us
An emotional vampire craves you, but he doesn’t know how to love
I was agonizingly slow to ‘get it,’ but the joy of music changed me
Why do American Christians impose political beliefs on God?
I’m losing need to explain myself to those who misunderstand me
Should a rational person question orthodox assumptions on climate?
How could we take responsibility but avoid self-destructive shame?
At times, we have to just wait for the day when we’ll see the fruit