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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."