Pretentious

After weeks of anxiety-ridden procrastination, I took up arms against The Final Paper. It's my own fault, really. The topic chosen is far too ambitious for an undergrad term paper; I could easily write my Masters thesis on it.

I've spent the day tilting at windmills too theoretical and boundless to stay still! Little frakkers keep shifting... shifty frakkers... if I could just get a decent grip on the theories I'm chasing...

Oh, alright, I'll admit to it: I'm writing on the debate over the literary canon. The wha-? Yeah, who knows at this point. It's simultaneously obscure and far too important. This debate is what defines Jr. High, High School and most University English class curriculum. This debate is a glimpse into the American Nationalistic consciousness, a whiff of what makes us Us. What does that mean? Who the hell knows.

What I do know is that I am completely unqualified to enter into this dialogue . I've not even begun to read said List, let alone be an authority to submit commentary on it.

This topic is pretentious. It's quixotic. It's all abstract theory and at this point theory begets theory begets theory begets theory. My paper is turtles, all the way down.

Read in ignorant bliss my friends, read in ignorant bliss. And never, ever, take a Critical Theory class. There's no blue pill at the end of the semester.

PS- Jason, if you're reading this, it's not you, it's me.

PPS- For the record, I'd like it to be known that while I bitch and moan about Theory Babble, I'm secretly in love with it. It's a mind job, to be sure.