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A semicolon walks into a therapist's office and collapses on the couch. "I just don't know who I am anymore," it sighs. "Periods think I'm too weak to end a sentence properly. Commas think I'm pretentious. The young writers don't use me at all; they just hit enter and start a new paragraph." The therapist nods sympathetically. "How does that make you feel?" "Conflicted; torn; uncertain." The semicolon pauses. "See? I can't even describe my feelings without showing off."

A dangling participle walks into a bar. Sipping his drink, the bartender asks what's wrong. 'That's exactly my problem,' the participle sighs. 'Everyone thinks YOU'RE the one sipping the drink. I've been misattached my whole life. My therapist says I have attachment issues.' The bartender nods sympathetically. 'Having heard that before, a refill seems appropriate.' 'See?!' shouts the participle. 'WHO heard it?! WHO?!'

A semicolon creates an online dating profile: 'Looking for someone who appreciates complexity; not ready to commit to a full stop, but too sophisticated for a mere comma. Must enjoy long, connected thoughts and independent clauses who want to stay close. Periods need not apply; em-dashes, let's talk.'