“Fuck The Poor?”

And I know most probably don’t give out money to some random guy on the street and would rather give directly to a charity or those who need it, but it’s still sad to see.

Plus, it’s not hard to find info on charities that are in line with what you’re compassionate about, whether it be helping the poor or anything else. We’re just too lazy to Google it.

What I’m saying is, we talk a lot about how the poor are getting the bad stuff in life. How the government should care more, how evil the people who fake charities are. We defend them, at least innately or verbally. Even if you’re apathetic about their well-being, you’ll probably frown over bad stuff they have to go through.

But then we’re confronted time and time again with the choice to give. And we choose not to. Because we don’t trust the party that’s asking, because we don’t know about how the money would be used, because we’d rather give our money for another cause, and our line of reasons go on and on.

The thing is, it’s all based on either two; we don’t care, or we don’t know.

If you don’t know what you’re compassionate about, where to donate, what charity has proven itself trustworthy, just open your browser! Ask a friend or two who’s into volunteering and that kind of stuff. You know you know some.

And, if you happen to be too lazy or you just don’t care, say so. It’s better than making up excuses. Even if your image goes down, at least people won’t bother you with others’ trials and tribulations anymore (or as much as now).

Heart Escape by Team Nuyorican

So, I tried to type in the words as usual. But it seems that my hearing abilities have been degraded (or maybe I just don’t know the words they’re using) so there are some missing parts. Or maybe wrong words. If you happen to find them (the parts in this colour, or any other mistake I didn’t realise), do let me know. All help is appreciated. 🙂

She and I were inseparable. We had created the other. She finger-painted my eyes into me and I was grateful for the very sight of her. I dipped my thumbs, and painted each strand of hair; long, sweeping lines. Each pupil of an index finger twisted. I kiss her mouth onto her. We built the organs inside of one another.

We were the gods of us.

That was long before the shaking.

Before the earth began to shake under our feet. Before our voices became railed to trains. Before the world began to shake like fault lines.

“Your fault!”

“Mine!”

We became (what’s the word that’s supposed to be here?)

How vain were we to shove ourselves into each other like this?

Found it hard to function in another body. Knew your pace was 72 beats per minute without strenuous exercise. Love is not a strenuous exercise. It is an empty pocket. A bursting earth.

You are looting flanks in the valley, tempted by fates of breath to be the chest-first, clean-eyed vision of the setting sun. Unable to speak without each ringing, you are fading into a ghost in the smoke of all this breaking.

-crack-

Panic. Took out the luggage. It will be too much to carry. Break the locks. Ignore the anxiety. It’s a trap!

Grab the grenades in her vocal cords. Hurdle(d?) over the tears towards the exit. Leave the sandcastles behind her eyes. The ice sculpture in her lungs. The pendulum on her tongue. The medallion in her hips has lost its swing.

-crack-

The curtains have caught fire. There is smoke. Stay low. The tide will run down her face. Grab your “life back” jacket.

Breathe.

You will begin to reminisce. Let it flow. When everything became barren and hollow….

Breathe.

When the leaves begin to shrivel into flames.

Breathe.

When you confuse (dang, can’t make out anything here!) stay focused. Stare ahead. Grab the trophy. Not the gold ones. The teddy bears! Picture frames. Locks of hair and fallen eyelashes. Snatch her name! Hum your favourite love song.

Breathe.

Remember the hook. You’re going to need it. Tie the knot. Untie it. Bow-tie a new one into a strong artery. Leave some slack never vertebrate. (I know, it makes no sense.)

-crack-

Turn right. Go down the corridor. Until you reach the end. Make another right. Open the first door on your left. The password is:

“I want to love myself again!”

Breathe.

Run through the door. Make another right. Slowly. 

Breathe.

Make your way towards the window. Go. The ladder above the fire escape; climb into the next window. This is every room you’ve ever shared!

Breathe.

You(‘ll) remember how hard it was to….

Breathe.

You are a puzzle of missing pieces. Your (they lost me here) is a finger-less ring. Pull the pin. Toss the grenade. Enjoy the music of that place evaporating. Make yourself sing to it. Dance if you can.

This is the only way out.

“The The Impotence of Proofreading” by Taylor Mali

If you enjoyed this, here’s his website.

Has this ever happened to you?
You work very horde on a paper for English clash
And then get a very glow raid (like a D or even a D=)
and all because you are the word1s liverwurst spoiler.
Proofreading your peppers is a matter of the the utmost impotence.

This is a problem that affects manly, manly students.
I myself was such a bed spiller once upon a term
that my English teacher in my sophomoric year,
Mrs. Myth, said I would never get into a good colleague.
And that1s all I wanted, just to get into a good colleague.
Not just anal community colleague,
because I wouldn1t be happy at anal community colleague.
I needed a place that would offer me intellectual simulation,
I really need to be challenged, challenged dentally.
I know this makes me sound like a stereo,
but I really wanted to go to an ivory legal collegue.
So I needed to improvement
or gone would be my dream of going to Harvard, Jail, or Prison
(in Prison, New Jersey).

So I got myself a spell checker
and figured I was on Sleazy Street.

But there are several missed aches
that a spell chukker can1t can1t catch catch.
For instant, if you accidentally leave a word
your spell exchequer won1t put it in you.
And God for billing purposes only
you should have serial problems with Tori Spelling
your spell Chekhov might replace a word
with one you had absolutely no detention of using.
Because what do you want it to douch?
It only does what you tell it to douche.
You1re the one with your hand on the mouth going clit, clit, clit.
It just goes to show you how embargo
one careless clit of the mouth can be.

Which reminds me of this one time during my Junior Mint.
The teacher read my entire paper on A Sale of Two Titties
out loud to all of my assmates.
I1m not joking, I1m totally cereal.
It was the most humidifying experience of my life,
being laughed at pubically.

So do yourself a flavor and follow these two Pisces of advice:
One: There is no prostitute for careful editing.
And three: When it comes to proofreading,
the red penis your friend.

“Touchscreen” by Marshall Soulful

Yet another video I typed word for word as a result of boredom. All italic and bold parts are just for a dramatic effect. Enjoy! 🙂

*buzzing sounds*

Introducing the new Apple iPerson, complete with multi-touch.

Doesn’t it feel good to touch? Doesn’t it feel good to touch?

Compatible with your iPod and your iPad.

Doesn’t it feel good to touch? Doesn’t it feel good to touch?

No friends? There’s an app for that! No life? There’s an app for that! You’re a complete loser? There’s an app for that!

Doesn’t it feel good to touch? Doesn’t it feel good to touch? Doesn’t it *makes glitching sounds* feel good to touch?


My world—my world has become so digital, I have forgotten what that feels like. It was difficult to connect when friends formed cliques, now it’s even more difficult to connect now that clicks form friends.

But who am I to judge? I face Facebook more than books face me, hoping to book face to faces. I update my status four hundred and twenty spaces to prove I am still breathing. Failure to do this daily means my whole web-wide world will forget that I exist. But with three thousand friends online and only five I can count in real life, why wouldn’t I spend more time in the world where there are more people that *clicks tongue* like me? Wouldn’t you?

Here, it doesn’t matter if I’m an amateur person as long as I have a profile. My smile is fifty percent genuine, fifty percent genuine HD—you would need Blu-Ray to read what is really me. But I’m not that focused. Ten tabs open, hoping my problems are resolved with a fifteen hundred by sixteen hundred resolution, proving we might’ve missed a step in this evolution.

Doubled over, we used to sit in treetops, ’til we swing down to stand upright. Then someone slipped a disc—now we’re doubled over at desktops. From the garden of Eden to the branches of Macintosh, apple-picking has always come at a great cost.

iPod, iMac, iPhone, iChat—I can do all of these things without making eye contact. We used to sprint to pick and store blackberries. Now we run to the Sprint store and pick BlackBerrys.

It’s scary. I can’t hear the sound of Mother Nature speaking over all this tweeting. And our ability to feel along with it is fleeting. We’d think that headphone jacks inject in the flesh the way we connect to disconnect. Powered on, until we are powerless.

We might be love drugged. Like E-pills, so we e-trade, e-mail, e-motion like e-commerce because when now money can buy love for 9.95 a month.

Click to receive the check-out. Click to ex-out where our hearts once were.

*click* I’ve uploaded this hug. I hope she gets it. *click* I’m making love to my wife. I hope she’s logged-in. *click* I’m holding my daughter over a Skype conference call while she’s crying in the crib in the next room. *click*

So my phone goes off of my hip. I touch, and I touch, and I touch, and I touch, and I touch. Because in a world where laughter is never heard and voices are only read, we are so desperate to feel that we hope technology can reverse the universe until the screen touches us back.

And maybe one day it will.

When our technology is advanced enough to make us human again.