They are; they fucking are. Please accept from me this sweet, overflowing bouquet of audacious semicolons… (;;;;;;;;;) I would fuck the shit out of any girl who knew how to use a semicolon correctly. No; that’s not true. That’s too crass. I would make sweet gentle Antonio Banderas-style love to any girl who knew how to correctly use a semicolon; with quilted sheets, and flickering candles. I would get up in the middle of our passionate lovemaking to tenderly bring her glasses of water because she’d be thirsty from all our passionate lovemaking. That’s how strongly I feel about semicolons.
Oh, imaginary girl who also feels so strongly about semicolons! Dumb people say that we no longer need to use semicolons; but they are wrong. Critics say these negative things about semicolons: “They are old-fashioned,” “They are middle-class,” “They are optional,” “They are mysteriously connected to pausing,” “They are dangerously addictive.” These people are fuckheads. Fuck all that noise, I say.
Oh, not for you. Not for you and me! Not for us, the phallic thrusting of the “em-dash.” Not for us, the excessive white space of the colon. No, for us, only the blank dot, symbolizing sexy nothingness and the sexy void; the blank dot and the luscious curve of the comma, which symbolizes ripeness, growth, and also sex, because most things symbolize sex.
Oh, one day; my purely hypothetical darling. One day, we will meet. And even if you happen not to be a girl, but perhaps a very epicene David-Bowie-ish sort of skinny dude; well, I’ve never swung that way before, but if we both love semicolons so much, probably it will be okay; but one day, we will meet. Possibly on the avenue; we will meet. We will spread our hands. We will know one another. “Hello,” we will say. “Hello; what next?” we will say. And we will know; we will know what is next to come.