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.

Bernanke: Recovery ‘faltering,’ so let’s do more of what hasn’t worked
The Fourth Amendment? Hmmmm. No, we’ve never heard of that one
Our methods of selling politicians seem designed for mental defectives
I can’t help wanting to replay life with emotionally healthy parents
Don’t trust this con man — or almost anybody else on ‘TV news’
Why is real love so hard to find? Look into a mirror for the culprit
Personal growth feeds a romance, but lack of honesty destroys love
I don’t regret my choices, but I do lament choices he refused to make