I’m a brat when you’re ill. A pain when there is a spill. I’ll shower you when you marry. Long or short. Brown or white. I am a sometimes friend for many.

I’m born once a day, grow old by nightfall, wrap fish better than gifts, and tell yesterday as if it just happened. What am I?

I’m useless upright, obedient when tilted. I vent excess before delivery, and fail if sealed completely. What am I?

I prick the hand that grasps too fast, my name grows shorter when I’m cast from one to many; count me twice, I lose a letter, not my spikes. What am I?

I follow you when you’re alone, I vanish when lights appear. I grow when you’re afraid, But die when you look at me. What am I?