Gen Why: Even if I'm wrong, I might be right

Law and ethics; a paradox, a seemingly matchless combination of boringness and something that one needs a degree and a six-figure IQ to truly understand.
Budding ethicists sacrifice entire lifetimes coming up with theories only to find that after all their brainstorming, thesis-ing and pensive thought-posing, the presumed truth of their argument is not true at all. It's frustrating, time-consuming and seriously racks off the parents who paid for little Jimmy to spend eight years studying Kant's moral philosophy.
Welcome to a land where the great puzzle of life, death and everything cannot be solved, not because the final imperative piece is missing, but because it simply doesn't exist.
The beauty of this charmingly complex subject is that principles of law and ethics can be applied to just about everything in existence, usually with equally ambiguous results. While the law of a country provides a fairly solid framework of what will and won't get you a life sentence and a tattooed bunk-buddy called Tyrone, the ethical part is somewhat more intricate.
The ethics of any situation depend on an overwhelming multiplicity of factors. While it is all well and good to invent a definitive theory about whaling, midget-tossing or any number of debatable modern conventions, whether or not it is right is completely different if you're a lesbian Inuit with learning difficulties or a bipolar vegan who was raised by monks. In the world of ethics, context rules all.
Imagine my joy when I learned my upcoming academic essay was to address not only the great vagueness that is law and ethics, but must also involve specific reference to the equally hazy subject of "privacy". The opening line of my first reading stated that "Privacy is an incredibly difficult concept to define."
The subject of right and wrong is so difficult because we are surrounded by people who claim to know everything.
Through the course of my attempted study I realise something awkwardly enlightening. Every week I gather my general musings on life and its affairs and radiate them on to you. I like to think I'm right, in fact, on finishing my weekly submissions, I admit a sort of fuzzy feeling comes on, the comforting sensation of rightness that inhabits the minds of the blissfully naive. This essay has been something of a wake-up call. When one is used to churning out their opinions without a hint of hesitation, it is strange to be introduced to a world where, although you can never be proved completely wrong, you can never really be right either. As I write, my essay is due in 16 hours - time that will be spent reading, rereading and trying to figure out the following:
A) If no one's ethics are right and no one's are wrong, what is the point in saying anything.
B) How many times I can reword the term "Privacy is a difficult concept to define" until I reach 2000 words?
C) Is a 30 per cent essay really worth the impending collapse of my mental health?
Whatever the outcome, Journalism Law and Ethics Assignment One has taught me some important facts. No matter how indefinite, the realm of ethics is a gift, one of the rare institutions that says it's okay to put your feet up, ponder and realise you don't know the answer after all. Ethics is the afternoon tea of the philosophical world. In a time where the answer to any question can be provided by the honourable Mr Google, humans can seek solace in not always having to live up to the all-knowing standard.
I have made zero progress on my essay. I cannot explain the ethico-legal paradox, I cannot relate my unexplained explanation to privacy. I can definitely not conjure up enough adjectives to restate the question 15 times.
I might just submit this ... I can't be wrong.