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.

Why are we uncomfortable when other people aren’t much like us?
Truth beyond physical world is hard for a skeptical man to see
Why am I disappointed in others, when my secret sins lay hidden?
Why are U.S. troops going into Uganda to take sides in a civil war?
‘We’re live with people standing in line. Did we mention we’re live?’
FRIDAY FUNNIES
How we live our lives can allow us to redeem dark family history
Our methods of selling politicians seem designed for mental defectives
Do you believe you’re free? Slavery by any other name is still slavery