David McElroy

It was early on a Sunday morning. I can’t describe my parents’ bedroom, but I know where we lived. I can’t tell you what else was going on. I just remember playing with my father on their bed.

My favorite game on all of these Sunday mornings was when he would let me climb onto his legs and he would lift me into the air, higher than a little boy knew was possible. I laughed gleefully and wanted to ride again and again.

I was a happy little boy in those moments.

This faded photograph from my baby book is the only physical evidence of those times, but my memory is more powerful than a photo anyway. You might not be able to tell in the darkness of the old picture, but that’s my father’s face on the lower left. I’m on top of his legs and he’s holding onto me with his outstretched hands.

Now that my father has been dead for more than three years, I wish I could erase all of the bad things about him in my memory. I wish it were possible to lose all the evidence of the angry and abusive narcissist who hurt me.

I wish I could hold onto just the loving and tender moments with my father, because those memories are powerful.

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Although I didn’t say anything, I felt disgusted. I listened carefully, like an anthropologist documenting life among a primitive tribe.

I was sitting next to four teens — all female, ages from 16 to 19 — on break at their restaurant jobs. They all know me casually, so they don’t filter what they have to say. I routinely hear their normal conversations.

I won’t quote their actual words, not because I wasn’t making notes — I was — but because I’m not willing to quote the sort of language they were using. They were talking about the porn they watch, sometimes with others and sometimes alone.

It was all about “tits” and “pussy” and “dicks.” These teens talked about these things as casually as people 30 years ago might have discussed their favorite television shows. From this porn they watch, they’ve learned their bodies are fat and ugly — although three of them are actually normal size — because they’re not the skinny women with silicone-enhanced breasts they see in porn.

They discuss what a big deal it is for a man to have a giant penis. (One of them said her fantasy was “12 inches.”) They all wanted breast enlargements. And one talked openly about surgery on her labia — because “everybody knows” that an “outie is ugly.”

I feel like an alien here. And I’m again reminded that my quaint values — the ones which most decent people held not so long ago — are no longer welcome in this degenerate society.

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Where’s the line between pursuing love and asking for public humiliation? Author Rebecca Renner walked that line about four weeks ago — and she fell off onto the wrong side.

Renner did something straight out of a romantic comedy — the kind with an emotional and dramatic ending. On May 21, she told her 125,000 Twitter followers that she was about to take a big risk for love.

“Last night, a personal tragedy reminded me that life is uncertain and too [expletive] short,” Renner tweeted. “So I booked a plane ticket, and I’m about to fly across the country to tell the love of my life how I feel. Wish me luck! And don’t wait another day to tell those you love that you love them.”

There was an outpouring of support from people who followed her trip and excitedly awaited the outcome. A lot of people who’ve wanted a romantic story for themselves were eager to live through her boldness.

It wasn’t too long before Renner reported what happened — and her mood had changed. She posted the photo above with a brief report.

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