To plurk, or not to plurk, that is the question.
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the rises and falls of outrageous karma
or to update against a timeline of parasites
And, by opposing, anger the plurk gods. To rise, to vacation
No more -- and by vacation to say we mark
all as read the thousand unread responses
that absence is heir to -- tis a plurk verb
devoutly to be wished. To rise, to vacation
To vacation, perchance to rest. Ay, there's the friend request,
For in that vacation of silence what updates may come,
When we have logged off this browser's page,
must freeze our screen. There's the cookie
That makes loading time so short.
For who would bear the tweets and bulletins of MySpace,
Th' plurker's wrong, the blocked man's contumely,
The dings of ignored updates, the internet's delay,
The insolence of spambots, and the responses
That fans merit of th' rise in karma,
When the plurker did not interest intend
With a random word? Who would IRL bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the anonymity of a digital life,
The boundless country from whose forums
There exists every form of image, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than log in to others that we know not of?
Thus plurk makes addicts of us all,
And thus the screen resolution
Is adjusted o'er with the pale pixels of light,
And YouTube videos of great volume and length
With this regard their owners refuse embedding,
And lose the name of action. -- Soft you type!
The fair avatar! Google, in thy cached infobanks
Be all my updates remembered.
http://www.plurk.com/acelessthan3/invite
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