Semicolons Have It Rough, Man.

Semicolon is getting real sick of this shit. People used to respect Semicolon; writers like Jonathan Swift used Semicolon like they had a tick, or an oddly specific Tourette's. Now Semicolon is mainly used by amateur writers before their high-school teachers cross his chest with obnoxiously lipsticky ink, insulting Semicolon like he's not even in the room. Semicolon gets a decent amount of work in legal documents and programming languages, but who the hell knows WHAT those are saying. Semicolon feels like a factory worker making parts for a machine he can't use and doesn't understand. And he's felt like that for too long.

Semicolon's parents are still getting good work, which drives him up the wall; Semicolon's dad, Colon, always speaks like the next thing he's going to say is something momentous and brilliant: and half the time, Colon just lists shit off, like complaints, or reasons, usually grievances, occasionally brief approval. Semicolon's mom, Comma, is fine with this, encourages it actually, and since she's the main breadwinner with the most incessant work, she never shuts up, always adding one more thing, never letting it go, talking, talking, and talking, on and on and on,  until Semicolon leaves or gets far enough away.

Semicolon's parents are always telling him that he can never finish anything he started, not that they can talk, but Semicolon can't argue with them; their mistakes were as clear on the page as his own. Semicolon never finished his relationship with Period, the man Semicolon hoped would end Semicolon; but instead, he just ended them. They had not nearly enough in common, and then there was the distance, and the fact Semicolon ignores as best he can that Colon doesn't know that his son is homosexual and already criticizes his femininity. And all Semicolon can think about sometimes is how he can never finish in bed, even when Period wasn't being a minuteman; how he's always on the brink of something, something greater, something powerful and brilliant and tangible and it will let him come, it will let him finish, it will let him become complete in a way Colon and Comma never were and Period always will be, but it and they and something, something will always be beyond him, will always be next but not now, never this moment but always visible ahead, the carrot on a stick that makes Semicolon, the ass that he knows he is, carry the words of others and never finish.

At least Semicolon sees those sluts "and yet" and "however" often enough. But Comma always has a way of walking in on them.