if i were an extremely wealthy owner of a television network i would shrimply pick up all the successful shows netflix and hbo and disney cancelled that ppl made petitions abt and the creators said they have more written for
and then make more seasons of them and my network’s ratings would be wildly high and also it’d be baller pr or w/e
also if all these other networks refused to sell me licensing rights even at exorbitant prices i would then go on the twitter and make posts abt how they’d refused to sell even tho they’re not making the new seasons either. i’d name prices i’d offered. i’d publicly shame them so much.
and then ofc i’d go to the creators of the shows i failed to get and ask them if they had any other ideas for shows that they’d like to do as a ‘network original’ for me or w/e. and promote ‘from the creator of that show netflix cancelled and refused to sell, an ALL NEW show that we won’t cancel at the height of its success for no good reason’
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
gameshow called 'pride or prejudice' in which the contestants are presented with a gay joke and have to guess if it was made by a queer person or a homophobe
Alternative: contestants are all LGBT having a great time with drinks (pineapple soda is the best) and the host is a straight liberal who has to read everything out so we end up with some great pained face gifs.
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annaxmalina
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