Don’t tell me, in the audience, that I’m wrong about the story you’re telling. If I can make the argument I’m making about what’s going on, and you think it’s wrong, that’s not my fault, that’s yours. You’re telling the story, and if I’m wrong, you’re not doing your job.
If you don’t like what I see happening in your story, telling me I’m wrong isn’t going to help. You haven’t made a compelling enough argument to get me on board what a different perspective yet. You haven’t made your point.
You’ve been ambiguous enough for my interpretation to exist. If you don’t like that perspective, if you really want to shut me up, write it out. You have all the power here. Don’t tell me I’m wrong; get the story to convince me.
Don’t blame me that my perspective is perfectly reasonable and arguable. You invented all the facts.
The only true thing in the story. Everything else is jazz hands.
Dick woke early the following morning practically leaping from the bed. He went on his morning jog, then stopped for a cup of tea and a newspaper
eager to see if his plan had worked. He ended up buying several before returning home.
The tabloids and the US Daily spread across his round kitchen table proved that he’d indeed made an impact.
Spanish press: “Hey Carlo, hey Xabi, we guess you have nice memories of La Decima, you know, bc you beat Atleti in La Decima!!!” Wait, let’s put Xabi in the front page of our newspaper bc he’s more important than the whole Atleti squad here. That’s it. Now let’s spend the whole week remembering how Atleti has lost 2 UCL finals. It’s not like Atleti kicked Bayern off last season or anything. LA DECIMAAAAAAA.
John, in his fear, climbs into his own cage, while the demon roams, unseen, barely glimpsed.
It is huge, though. It is fearsome. Gigantic teeth, red eyes, glowing. He can’t see it but he can hear its restless pacing, he knows, he knows, the way everyone comes to know, what this monster is and what will happen if it catches him. Even if he never sees it clearly, he knows, as everyone knows who finds himself alone on the moors or in a dark hollow, far from the trodden paths and the safe village from which, somehow, everyone else seems to know not to stray, he knows it is risk, it is terror, it is mortal peril; he knows that, whatever it is, he must not let it catch him, though he feels its call in his bones even as he flees.
So John stoppers his own mouth and silences his own voice and hides from the hound in a cage. He sets the latch himself, so he knows he is safe.
So Riarkle Shippers Are Racist For Shipping Riarkle...
Simply for shipping. What about Mark*e….Notice no one ever calls them Racist. And we all know why that is.
I cannot believe there are people in this Fandom who are actually willing to use someone’s race as a way to manipulate others. And I call BS on you actually thinking this, actually having a legit reason to believe this because you only mention riarkle, the major rival ship never anything else. If you truly felt it was racist, if you actually gave a damn you’d mention Mark*e but no…ust Riarkle, just the major rival ship.
You aren’t helping anything at all.
You don’t care. You don’t care and you’re using such a big issue just because. And I can’t believe you don’t get how disgusting that is. You’re tossing the word around for the hell of it, because you’re bitter about a fucking ship war and I a POC will not tolerate that shit.