It's an uncalled for occasion, an unwarranted surprise.
You're like butter on a roll:
impressed with yourself, yet in slight disbelief that you can be doing so well, especially this late in the game.
When you started writing this paper it was a mission, you just couldn't get the right words and phrases.
Everything just sounded choppy and distraught; the sentences all came together in paragraphs, but stood uniformly, not relating to one another.
A daunting task that exhausted every imaginative, philosophical, and reflective bone in your body.
But why would anyone do such a thing? Put limits on the art of words; sounds pretty masochistic if you ask me.
I suppose it's all done in good intention, no [sane] one wants to sit around reading a paper that's unnecessarily long and perhaps boring too.
Anyhow, you struggle and persist.
You enter that last period and a smile begins to break; you've finished, you've really finished. Next time, I won't procrastinate, you think. You're re-reading your oeuvre, your opus, your grand masterpiece, when you remember one fine little detail: numbers.
After all, it was all a game of numbers, and you were just too caught up in your literary world to recognize it. You begin to take it apart, word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph. Oh, the constraints of word limits!
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