Guilt

I am writing a final paper for my class on Turkish music, and I feel terribly guilty. I am not plagiarizing or anything of the egregious sort; as Mrs. Meehan explains, "'That ain't my style'" (Chambers 182). "Then why do you feel guilty?" your subconscious demands of my conscious fingers which send echoing taps across the keys of my internally-churning laptop computer and into my anxiously waiting medulla, incus and stapes.

I feel guilty because I am being a jerk--a jerk of the wordy. I am usually a pretty concise writer, but my professor insists that this paper be at least 8 pages. So I am prolonging my incredulity-inspiring explanations, expanding my most insignificant insights, and repeating myself. Over and over and over.
I feel kind of bad about it, but I am also a little miffed about this 8-page regulation. And now that I have confessed to you, my digital priest of sorts, I feel a little bit better about the whole thing.

This is the point where you ought to go watch the scene from season one of the West Wing where C.J. and Sam call one another out for being triply redundant. One day I will have a B.A., if I ever finish this paper; C.J., on the other hand, was a B.A. from the moment of her birth.

 

Works Cited

Chambers, Robert W. Athalie. New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1915.