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.

Letting go of dead dreams can lead to path you need to follow
Why are most fiscal conservatives ignoring Paul Ryan’s actual record?
The Alien Observer: Minneapolis riots might be preview of future
Donald Trump’s jingoistic tribalism marks him as a dangerous buffoon
Politicians have no right dictating the menu of your kid’s Happy Meal
I was agonizingly slow to ‘get it,’ but the joy of music changed me
A year later, my father’s death looms large, but I have no regrets
Delusional Democrats help Trump re-election by chasing phantoms
Faith and fear collide where dreams and reality come together