Mostly rambles, few brambles
Remind Me Not To Be a Jerk
I really appreciate you doing this for me. Seriously, you helped me out of a bind. Could you do one more thing for me, though, and remind me not to be a shitheel the next time you ask me for a favor?
Between the mileage that I won’t reimburse you for and the moderate amounts of danger and disease to which you were subjected, today meant a lot and I don’t want to hear it all thrown in my face when I rebuke your favor request in the future. This is why I’m asking—pretty please, as a small favor-addendum to the three hours you spent in traffic and haunted institutions today—that you remind me not to be an abhorrent goon in a week, two years, whenever you come knocking. Personally, I don’t want to feel terrible then, and I know my natural response to any request from anyone, ever, is a deluge of rehearsed excuses.
As soon as I stop talking, I’m positive I’ll promptly forget everything that you did for me. All the asbestos exposure, all the stolen medical-grade pornography, it’ll all slip from my mind and be gone forever. Already, I’m forgetting that you didn’t have that face gash when the day started. I actually find myself starring at it so much that, logically, you’d think the inevitable scar would be a reminder, but you’d be wrong. I know, it could have just as easily been my still-flawless face slashed by that mailman’s scimitar, but, alas, I will forget this bit of trivia, and the next time you reject my loan request for five or ten grand, interest-free with vague payback terms, I’ll think, “Boy, was he always this stingy, or this disfigured?”
Today will be well documented, both by the national press and pockets of ghoul deniers; I, however, will opt to not memorialize any of my neediness and will instead tell a doctored narrative to anyone who might ask until even I, myself, misremember, too. So, I am asking, please, remind me not to be a piece of human garbage when the time comes and, please, cite your sources, as I know I will be skeptical to help. Honestly, I do want to be thought of as a person who would repay you, though, I don’t want it to be in money even though we had agreed upon money earlier.
Do not let me soapbox through twenty minutes of excuses, because I’m going to feel exceptionally crummy when you brandish the article about an attempted de-ghosting of a national landmark while mailman henchmen were temporarily distracted. It’s your duty to refute any rebuttal swiftly. There is no chance I’ll want to dog sit or pick up mail for someone who makes me feel ungrateful, like I’m indebted or something.
It might just be my own weird quirk, but I really don’t like feeling like an absolute monster.