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.

Slow culture changes might mean skin color matters less in future
If you accept that you’re a fool, being wrong is a lot less scary
Little blonde cousins are sometimes perfect antidote for life’s bleak days
I keep forgetting that I can’t save those who don’t want to be saved
If parents excuse cheating, what should we expect from their kids?
It’s odd how ‘choice’ can mean ‘no choice’ with the state involved
Is AI software a useful tool or does it dictate how I see myself?
I want to help out of pure love, but human motives are messy