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Copyeditor's report, Monday: 'Found 14 misplaced semicolons. Corrected.' Tuesday: 'Semicolons back. All 14. In different locations. Corrected again.' Wednesday: 'Semicolons multiplied to 31. Three replaced periods. One absorbed a comma. Escalating to senior editor.' Thursday: 'Em-dashes have joined the semicolons. They barricaded chapter 9. Cannot access pages 142–160. Requesting backup.' Friday: 'Manuscript now entirely semicolons. 78,000 of them. Author called. Said he likes it better this way. Quote: "Finally, someone understands my vision."'

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 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.'