Does anyone happen to remember a poem in which the narrator talks about how s/he admires Lot's wife? I vaguely remember liking the turn that was taken towards the end of it, but the knowledge of the title and who wrote it have long since left my headspace.
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I don't know which movie it's from but it occurs to me that if that's really what the guy wanted he'd just shut the fuck up, die in isolation and especially not tell anyone that he didn't want to be remembered. Even he had to tell someone about it first though.
-but then, it was just a movie. Heh heh.
Your own personal measuring stick is the hardest one to live up to. Even if you lie to youself about it, you know. It's much easier to just go out and buy a new barbeque that's bigger and shinier than the Johnon's have next door...
I do not excuse myself from any of these human traits of course. I do try to keep a handle on them, as part of my measuring stick