I used to think my love life was a comedy of errors. Now I see it as a strange recurring motif: men who start ordinary and, over months or years, begin to believe they’re central to some grand design. They don’t arrive convinced they’ll “rule the world.” That conviction grows — an accretion of small choices, stories, attention, and the cultural static we all breathe. I’m not seeking out men with delusions of grandeur. I’ve never set out to become anyone’s crown or court. Still, the pattern keeps showing up, and I’ve learned to read it, name it, and write about it. Eventually they all think they are the devil and rule the world, i guess i just make men feel that wonderful.