I just wrote one of the fluffiest of fluffy papers. Sat down and cracked it out like a whiz-bang, squinty-eyed, detached professional essay writer. Give me my $15.
It doesn't make me feel good to do this, but it does feel good to have it done. At times like this, I blame the paper and the assignment that spawned it. If you give a professional chef a bag of marshmallows to work with, this is what you get.
Imagine that I wanted to say,
I read the darn book,
but I typed,
With sincere pleasure I meditatively devoured the latest missive from the brilliant author like a starving jeweler in a gold mine, looking for nuggets of wisdom with which to supplement my pyrite-infested display case.
Bloated marshmallows of sentences are littering my word processor.