my rip of this is terrible so apologies for the quality

how i organize
  •  one-subject notebooks. 
    • These saved my life. I know everyone’s always saying to keep your stuff in one place and keep track of it all at once, and the way to do that is (apparently) thick, 5-subject looseleaf notebooks and 3″ binders. These have never worked for me, and here’s why: the larger the notebook, the more it catches and rips and doesn’t close right. 
    • Plus, the larger the notebook, the longer you use it, and the longer it has to survive that wear and tear! (Bonus: without having to worry about the notebook being destroyed, I also don’t have to buy the more expensive and durable brands; now I only pay for quality of paper and pretty colours!)  
    • So, I use one-subject notebooks for each class and go through multiple (I’ve never noticed a significant cost difference). A single one-subject notebook lasts me 4-6 units, or about one quarter/half a semester. When I complete a notebook, I simply begin the next, and carry only the newest one with me places. The previous notebooks are kept in my study space so I can always reference them as though it’s one large book, and I rarely need the previous chapters for in-class work. 
    • I start with one notebook per class plus one notebook purely for scribbles or rip-out looseleaf paper, and keep a supply of empty notebooks at my permanent study space.
  • central grade collection. 
    • I do this because it’s easy to reference back to. Soooo many terrible teachers who simply don’t trust their students. Feels nice to whip out a test to prove you were right (and aced it!). Calculating the grade myself makes me more aware of what’s going on with my academics. My biggest downfall this year was not paying attention to my grades!
    • I used to use an accordion folder for this, but this year I’m going to try combining that with a digital file.
    • Whenever I receive a grade back, the paper copy goes in a physical folder and the percentage/grade itself goes onto a file on my computer.
    • The physical folder is organized by classes. As I receive grades back, the newest goes in the front, so each class is naturally ordered chronologically. I tried organizing it further by putting flags to tell apart tests, quizzes, essays, etc. It worked well but eventually I just didn’t bother.
    • The computer file is actually multiple files (again, one for each class). An excel spreadsheet or a simple word doc works well. I specify the material as much as possible (for example, “Unit 1: Trig. Quiz 1: Identities. Date: 7-4-2015″ using both words and numbers) so I can easily search for it later. Next to it goes the numerical and letter grade. I’m thinking of incorporating a note-taking system as well, listing what went wrong and such.
    • This sounds like a lot of work, but it takes very little time and is well worth it. Logging the grades take about 5 minutes, tops. I often find myself putting off work by organizing grades. Obviously it’s hard to log things instantly, so I keep a stack of “to be graded” on my desk until I get around to it.
    • Oh, and keep the physical folder safe in your room/dorm. Carrying it around for spiteful moments is not worth the risk of losing all your grades!
  • separate days.
    • I don’t know about you, but my school has something similar to a block schedule. Monday, Wednesday, Fridays all have the same classes. Tuesdays and Thursdays have the same classes as well. My method works for real block scheduling, too, for even/odd or on/off days. I once had a chronic problem of bringing in the wrong day’s homework. Not anymore!!
    • Basically, just keep the two workpiles separate.
    • I have two cabinets on my desk: one for MWF classes, one for TTh classes. On my desk at all times are my “daily” tools: laptop, charger, planner, pencil pouch, water bottle, etc.
    • In the morning, I always put my dailies in first so I don’t forget, then I check the calendar. Tuesday? Shove in the TTh stack. It’s as simple as that.
    • When actually doing my homework, obviously, prioritize. There isn’t a hardfast “do your homework the day you get it” rule, especially since studying is a process! But when nothing’s especially urgent and I don’t have a favourite assignment, I literally flip a coin.
  • computer files have to be neat.
    • I have so many subfolders I don’t know what to do with them.
    • Separate everything, again, and again, and again. And label it all to hell and back. You can never have a file title that’s too long.
  • You know how you can make multiple accounts on your computer? Admin vs user? Yeah, do that.
    • Make your admin account your free-time, slacker account.
    • Make your user account your work account.
    • Make all the settings admin-only accessible. Don’t get distracted by downloading random crap while doing your homework. Put restrictions on internet usage, gameplay, etc. To get distracted, you have to make the effort to enter an admin password every time you get off task.
    • Bonus: during presentations, you never have to worry about accidentally opening something embarrassing. Everything embarrassing should be in your personal account!
  • Lastly: don’t stress! 
    • When I stress, everything gets disorganized. My mind gets cluttered and so does the rest of my life. I used to stress so hard about grades.
    • If you don’t think you can make the deadline, don’t. One grade is not worth a night of sleep and mental health.
    • If the grade is super important (not all grades are like this: prioritize!) work on it as hard as you can. Don’t stress; put all that stressful energy into the work. Focus your ass off. If you can’t do that, it’s time to stop.
    • Talk to the teacher the next day. Take responsibility for your mistake. Apologize, and do not give excuses. Show to your teacher that you care more about the learning than the grade; it will pay off in the long run.
    • The day after missing a huge assignment is rough. Don’t let it get to you! Dwelling on this assignment only sets you up for failure on any other assignments you have that day. Focus on those and not on what you did wrong. Have yourself a good break, snack, jog, and get back in there. The world isn’t over!
Mean Queens Ch.16 (Group Fic) - NymphCAMP

Nymph’s A/N: the fuckening part 118272. enjoy babes xoxo

pooreCOOMP’s A/N: it just keeps getting worse holy shit

**fair warning don’t be offended at things that are offensive plz and thank you - the views of the Mean Queens are not our own**

Keep reading

Originally posted by allthingssvu

“Yes, it would ^ One can always dream.”

For the lovely @xemopeachx about her dream of which I am incredibly jealous. I wrote this during a quick break at work so god have mercy on my soul. 

Also, definitely one Archer reference coming up.


You met the first one at your favorite bar; a small, classy joint that seemed to demand intimacy from it’s patrons. He’d been there before, and he’d started nodding at you in greeting but it took a few weeks before he actually made his move. The bar was more crowded than usual and someone was already sitting in his normal seat, so he headed towards you instead.

Keep reading

Love & Attention

(A/N: Hey guys I can’t confirm yet if I’m officially back, but I miss you guys and I can tell people are still reading my work. I apologize for my long absence, you know how life can get. I wrote this (pg 13 writing) with inspiration of the picture of Matt’s neck. Enjoy this, and I’m terribly sorry about the writing; you can definitely tell I’m rusty. 😂 More babes 💜)


“Does it not look like I’m trying?” Matt asked in a sarcastic tone, not even lifting his head to acknowledging you.

“Fuck you.” You let out at Matt. He’s sitting down in the desk chair in the bedroom, focused on the work in his hands.

“You better lower your voice.” He growled through clenched teeth

You couldn’t believe he was acting like this. He had been stressed sure, but that didn’t give him the excuse to act like a huge ass to the world around him. Everyone was stressed, including yourself! Used to being showered with kisses and love, you felt neglected when Matt hadn’t been taking in to account of how you felt.

Winter was coming early and no one was ready. Game had to be hunted, Wood had to be chopped, and more importantly the home Matt had been building for you both had to be completed. The family business was booming and weather had been terrible. Needless to say, these previous weeks had been tough on everyone.

You had just about had enough living with the whole family in one cabin, not that you didn’t love the family, that was far from the truth. It was just too small for everyone to fit and confined you to one room to have any private time to yourself or with Matt.

Everyone had been down stairs in the living room not too far from where your bedroom door had hung open, threatening to let any part of your conversation drift down.

“No!” You challenged, placing your hands on your hips.

Knowing you, he shouldn’t have been surprised when you wanted to put up a fight. You didn’t back down, a quality negative and positive. Like fire, strong, and intriguing, yet unforgiving and burning.

He swung around in the chair to face you, he spread out his legs and laid his head back on the rest, chin up, staring up at you. It took a lot to get Matt upset. But you could see it boiling in his face. You desperately wanted a reaction from him, something, anything.

He sighed, and ran a hand through his curls. “Can this wait until later, I’m really busy.” He spat.

“No, no it can’t actually.” You paused, waiting for a response, yet electing nothing.

“You’re such an asshole!” You breathed, you knew you didn’t deserve to be so mad at Matt, hell the argument you started wasn’t even real. You just wanted Matt mad and flustered.

He let out a breath of frustration and stood up from his chair slowly passing you to shut the bedroom door.

“Stop.” He pronounced every letter in the world. You knew he meant it too by the look he gave you. Much to your amusement, you didn’t care.

“What’s going on?” He walked over to you, dangerously close to your body, gazing in to your eyes searching.

“I can’t stand you right now!” You hissed, rolling your eyes, he tried to move closer, and you placed your hands on his tough chest pushing him back.

Shocked, he raised his eyebrows then that turning into a knowing look. In one swift move he backed you up against the door frame and grabbed you by your shirt collar forcing you to look up at him.

“You. better. stop.” He twisted your collar bringing you closer to his face.

You didn’t even flinch, all you did was bite your lip trying to hide your satisfied smile.

“Is that what you wanted?” He asked in his deep voice, humming.

“You wanted daddy mad?” He smirked, continuing his questioning.

You pursed your lips desperately trying to fight your smirk, you looked up at him through your eyelashes with what he would call “your doe eyes.” Faking your innocence.

“Is that what you wanted baby, just some attention?” He flickered his eyes down to your wet pink lips back to your gaze. He stole a quick kiss.

“You always have to start a fire don’t you?” Taking you by surprise he split open your shirt, ripping all of the buttons and earning a gasp from you.

“Well, all you had to do what ask.” He threw you on top of the bed.

You always got what you wanted.

Feeling Book (piece for the Romanada Exchange)

I recommend listening to track six on my blog to get the full effect.

Warnings: Implied character death 

...

...

From the time he was been created, Papa always said that he was the special one, the greatest of his works. Perhaps that was why most of the other paintings always glared at him from the halls of the fabricated world, they were jealous. Though their glares ceased when they saw how he became favoured less after his painting was completely finished, they ignored him completely after that. He was used to being alone, but not like this. He had felt so, so hollow, like the painting of the empty nest Papa had painted not so long ago. The brief talks he had with Papa weren’t enough to keep the emptiness at bay anymore. Now, he wasn’t sure what to call the feeling. Matthew knew what some feelings were called, like happy (a bubbly thing that made you want to smile), sad (it was supposed to be a bad feeling), surprised (a little jolt in your chest), and scared (you would get goosebumps and your stomach would twist), but he didn’t know what to call that hollow aching. He flipped though the pages of the storybook that talked about feelings, picking through each paragraph for a word for that empty feeling. Finally he found it, lonely, he was lonely.

‘Is there a cure for loneliness?’ he wondered. Matthew didn’t like the feeling, he wanted it to go away as quickly as possible. Again he flipped through the pages, he found what he was looking for much easier this time. 'The cure for loneliness’ the book had read, 'is to be around friends.’ He didn’t know what to think. Friends? What were friends? He knew what parents were, and what siblings were, but he didn’t know what 'friends’ were. The term was meaningless to him. But he wanted to know what it meant.

“What are friends Spider in Blue?” he asked quietly, approaching the many-legged painting, but he wasn’t heard. He called again, this time louder.

“What are friends Spider in Blue?” the blue suited painting turned to him, distrustful, and answered quietly.

“People that you like to be around, and they like you to be around too.”

“Thank you Spider in Blue!” the other painting nodded and crept away quickly. Matthew skipped along and chatted with the other paintings (or rather, tried to). He tried to make 'friends’ with them, tried to get them to like him. It was all in vain. They didn’t want to talk to him, they just wanted to avoid him altogether. That hurt, it had hurt a lot. So he went to Papa instead, shouting out from the inside of the painting as loud as he could, hoping he would notice him. He did, and Matthew couldn’t describe, only memorize, the way he had looked at him with his graying hair falling out of its ponytail.

“Can you paint me a friend father?”

His Papa smiled softly and nodded, he smiled too, then settled back into the thorny rose backdrop of his painting. He waited patiently.

He waited for such a long time, and then waited some more. His Papa had gone missing, all his art materials were just lingering around the room collecting dust. He wasn’t there to talk anymore, neither were the other paintings, and Matthew’s loneliness grew. His promised friend was nowhere to be found, and the other paintings never seemed to be even aware of him. He had been forgotten completely. Time passed so slowly now, and so painfully too. He still felt lonely, terribly lonely, but now there was a sharp pain in his chest. Liquid seeped out of his eyes at times, and he felt a lump in his throat grow when it did. So much time passed, and everything seemed darker and darker.

There was no sound anymore, he couldn’t even hear the buzz of silence that usually filled the fabricated room of the painting. He couldn’t hear anything outside the painting either, everything just had no sound at all. Naturally, his ears shattered when he heard the rustle of clothing outside the painting and his heart leapt to his throat. His Papa had finally returned! His friend was finished! He wasn’t going to be alone anymore!

The sound of a key scraping in the lock scratched the inside of his ears roughly, but he relished in it. The more sound there was the less loneliness there would be and the closer he would be to having a friend and getting his Papa back with him. The lock clicked and the door creaked loudly as it swung open. He stared out eagerly from his position, grinning widely with his eyes shining.

His grin dropped from his face instantly. This was not his Papa, and he wasn’t carrying his friend with him.

The man that had entered looked nothing like his kind father. His face was fixed in what looked to be like a permanent scowl and his stare was harsh and stern. The man’s eyes weren’t soft like the purple watercolours that his Papa’s eyes were, they were like chipped off pieces of emerald. Though his hair was blond, it hadn’t neither the small streaks of grey nor the soft look his father’s hair had. And his eyebrows, they were more akin to caterpillars than eyebrows, though one couldn’t say they looked bad on the man. Finished observing, Matthew shrunk back as quietly as he could into his painting. He wasn’t supposed to be moving when someone other than Papa was here. The blond man’s eyes flashed over to him.

“Hn, I guess that bloody old artist did paint something other than scenery and creatures. Good, he followed my suggestion.” Matthew stayed stock still while the man paced over to him, the name-tag clipped to his shirt read 'Arthur Kirkland’. He bent down, keeping eye level with Matthew while he inspected him. He ran a thin finger along the wooden frame, looking closely at the him. The painting had never felt so frightened in his life. Papa had said that people would do terrible things, unspeakable things, if they found out that he and the other paintings could move and talk and walk.

“Why?”

“Because people do terrible things to what they’re afraid of.”

'Arthur’ stepped back from his painting, and Matthew’s heart started beating man smiled crookedly at him, his eyes softening slightly. “It’s a wonder how we even found you, Bonnefoy hid you well. I had to go though so many passageways, it’s a wonder how I didn’t get lost…” the man tapped his chin, “Though I’m not sure why he hid you, he never hid any of his other paintings before he-”

Hid? Papa hid him? Maybe that was the reason Papa wasn’t here, he couldn’t find him and he was still looking for him. Yes, that was definitely it, after all, Papa wouldn’t forget about him, would he-?

“-died.”

His ears perked up, 'died’? What was 'died’? It had a certain finality about it, an end of the line feeling. Maybe he would search for that word in the 'dictionary’ later, after this Arthur man was gone, or maybe he should- Before he could even finish his thought a slow lifting sensation, almost as if he was being thrown into the air, over came him. It was odd though, he was still laying in the thorny backdrop of the painting, he wasn’t moving at all-

Wait.

This Arthur person was just picking up his picture like it was nothing, didn’t his painting weigh quite a bit? Papa had told him it did, and that no one would ever be able to take him away from here. And yet, here this man was picking him up like it was nothing. Had Papa…lied to him? It was unthinkable, Papa never lied…Right?

“Might as well bring you to the gallery…” Matthew’s heart was beating unbearably fast, gallery? He was being taken to a 'gallery’? Where was that? What was that? The man wasn’t looking at him any more and Matthew took the chance to check behind his wall of thorns and check if the hallway that led to the fabricated world was still there. Maybe he could escape the painting and stay here! He grabbed a strong vine sprinkled with thorns and ripped it to the side, tearing it a bit. Oh well, it would heal. Nothing really destroyed anything in the gallery really, except for those great beasts of flame. Her ripped another blue rose vine to the side, and another, and another, until-

Nothing was there but a purple wall.

He banged on it, his eyes wide as plates, screaming. No, no, NO. He couldn’t be trapped, he had to escape. Papa wouldn’t find him otherwise! He kicked the solid surface in rage, his foot smarting with flicks of pain. Something hit him on the top of the head. A book. He bit his lip and rubbed the lump on his skull, then fumbled around on the floor in an attempt to find the hardcover that had spiked him on the head. His hand touched the worn leather cover and moved it back to the top of the shelf.

He shouldn’t be back here. What if that man noticed he was missing from his painting? It would be disastrous, he would probably burn his painting and then…He would go to the elsewhere that Papa had told him about. His train of thought stopped, the moving sensation had stopped. Matthew peeked out from behind the curtain of rose thorns. The man’s huge emerald eyes stared back at him. But they weren’t surprised, they just had the sad and knowing quality that Papa’s eyes always had. He looked back, his eyes still watering. The man shook his head, frowning.

“Bloody git should’ve listened when I told him not to animate human paintings.” he looked back up at Matthew, his frown deepening.

Matthew parted his lips slightly, shrinking back against the foliage of the backdrop. The man crouched back a little, murmuring apologies under his breath. “Ah, sorry. You don’t even know me, and here I am, just picking you right up without an explanation. I must have scared you quite a bit.” he smiled slightly, “My name is Arthur, and you are?”

The boy furrowed his eyebrows a bit, then spoke quietly. “…thew”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Could you repeat-”

“Matthew.”

The man smiled again, “That’s a wonderful name.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“The gallery.”

“What is that?”

Arthur’s eyes widened in surprise, “You don’t know what an art gallery is?”

“No.”

The blond man coughed and scratched that back of his choppy head of hair. He clucked his tongue and picked up the painting again, much to Matthew’s indignation. “I’ll explain to you once we’re there. ” he sighed.

His explanation made only a small amount of sense, to say the least.

Matthew’s time spent at the gallery became longer and longer as the days passed, though he never asked to leave (Why? that was a question even he couldn’t answer), and the book was pushed to the very back of his mind. He saw the fabricated world again, all of his father’s paintings had been moved here. There were even a few new paintings. The other paintings seemed to be more talkative around him, perhaps even a little more friendly. The fabricated world was more open-seeming, not so closed-in. He couldn’t really explain it, it was just a feeling. He couldn’t really say anything looked different, but things just felt different.

Days in the gallery were peaceful, but boring and slightly uncomfortable. It was a horrible feeling to have eyes on you for hours on end, but they didn’t do anything, just look (something Matthew was grateful for). The staring didn’t last forever, when the bell rang everyone left and Matthew was free to go and talk with the other paintings and stretch his stiff muscles. The people he saw come to stare weren’t particularly interesting either, which just added to the dull atmosphere. They always had the same looks, same clothes, same everything. This was coming from him, whose hobby was watching and observing things and people. In all of his time there, he had only seen one interesting person, and she had passed him right by with her red neck scarf and skirt flowing, so he couldn’t watch or observe.
There were exciting days, but they came rarely and too far in-between.

Today was one of the common boring days, and Matthew was leaning in the same exact position he always had. His eyes wide open and staring outwards while his mouth curled in a half-frown and his pale fingers fisted the blue roses in his grip. His pastel violet eyes observed the three girls standing in front of the frame. Two of them, quite obviously twins, cooed over him while the third girl, a mousy brunette, stood to the side and smiled up at him. The twins turned away after a couple moments and tugged away the brunette to look at another painting. He blinked at the sudden movement, then went back to staring. No one else came to look at his painting for a while, only glancing to it as they passed by. Everything was mostly quiet, only the slight chatter of schoolgirls and small children could be heard, he felt himself relax and sink into the woven bed of roses. His eyelids began to droop. He was really tired from last night, having participated in tag from dusk to dawn and then resting for only a few short hours. He closed his eyes. Perhaps it would be best if he took a short nap-

“I said no!”

“Ve~, but fratello-”

Matthew cracked one eye open, looking over at the sudden disturbance. A tanned boy with his back turned to him argued with another boy, presumably his brother, loudly from across the room.

“But you promised~”

“Tch, when?”

“In the car when I was driving.”

Matthew thought he saw his skin turn a shade paler. “Ach, fine. We’ll go.”

“Yay!”

“Tch.” The boy turns around and he swears that he can feel his painted heart stop for just a second. His cheeks feel warm and his stomach flip-flops like a suspended bridge in a hurricane. The boy is beautiful, quite like the humid summer rain that Arthur once showed to him through the steamed-up glass windows of the gallery. But it’s more that that. Something about him just seems wild, exotic, untamed, and yet calm and serene at the the same time. It’s befuddling, and for a second Matthew almost moves to press his hands against the barrier of the painting that separates him from the outside world and stare, transfixed, at the contradicting boy from across the room. He grips the roses tighter, his palms feel sweaty and he feels certain that he’s blushing like the Red Lady’s dress. He keeps staring, unable to tear his eyes away from him.

Their eyes meet and his breath catches in his throat.

He stares back, not wanting to look away. ’Don’t move don’t move don’t move’ he tells himself. The footsteps of the boy’s worn sneakers echo in his ears when he walks over, he thinks he can feel every single vibration that every footfall makes. The boy stares at him, just like all the others have- No, his scowling stare is different. It’s not googly eyed, or critical, or judging, it’s the look of a person who’s just there to look and see.
The other boy bounces closer to his brother, staring wide-eyed over the top of his shoulder. “Wow… What’s this painting?” his eyes glance downwards to the metal plate below the reaches of the frame, “Hm…What do you think of this one fratello?” green eyes flick to the hazel eyed boy.

Matthew’s ears perk up. The boy looks away from his brother and back to the painting, eyeing the roses and Matthew carefully. The corners of his mouth turn up slightly.“It’s…nice.”

The slightly taller brother (older or younger? he couldn’t tell) nodded and turned away, humming quietly. Matthew feels his heart flutter, and smiles widely despite himself. The smile drops from his face when he sees the boy’s expression. His bottle green eyes are wide when they meet with the pale violet of Matthew’s. He takes a step back from the painting, startled, and trips into his brother. The other boy looks at him with a small frown. “Is something wrong Romano?”

The beautiful boy stares back at the painting for a moment, then brushes his shoulder off. “No…Nothing.”

His brother smiles with his eyes closed and grabs the boy’s wrist, tugging him along. “Ve~ Let’s go get that pasta!” the boy rolls his green eyes and looks back at the painting curiously for the last time. Matthew smiles again, his heart giving that small fluttering sensation again. He thinks about the boy for the rest of the day, and manages to fight the urge to touch his cheeks when some of the regular visitors remark that the frowning painting’s cheeks are tinged pink. After everyone is gone, and the gallery is dark, he touches his chest.

His heart felt like a bird’s wing, it was flapping and beating quickly. It was another feeling he didn’t know the name of. What should he check-?

The feeling dictionary.

His mind drifts back to the old leather book, he hadn’t used it in awhile, not since Arthur had gone away (and not come back). He pushes away the vines again, just like he had before, and looks to the shelf above the doorway. He reaches up and grabs the farthest book on the left and slowly brings it down. He turned the pages carefully and slid down to the floor.

A fluttering feeling…fluttering- there it is.

Love

-Feeling very attached to someone/something.

-Lots of affection for a thing.

-A fluttery feeling you get in your chest when you see a certain someone~

So he in love with that boy? That fluttery feeling was love? It was… pleasant, something he’d want to feel again. 'Maybe that boy would visit again and…’ he touched his chest with a small smile. He felt that hope emotion.

'Yes, I’d like that.’

...

...

Oh god, It’s crappy. Sorry. Anyway, this was my piece for Canadian-Jaeger for the Romanada Exchange. It’s not my best work, but I hope she likes it at least a little bit.

This is terrible quality and I apologize. But this little moment overall takes the cake for best J2 moment. During the Supernatural panel at Nerd HQ 2015, Jensen and Jared were asked at what moment did they realize what the purpose was for their characters and what were they about. Jensen answered, then things took a deeper turn when Jared replied that he figured out exactly who Sam was during the season 8 finale because he felt like the directors were writing his own personal life story due to the fact that he claimed he was dealing with the same aspects in real life, like how he constantly feels like he has to prove himself or always wondering if he let’s down the people that he loves.

This is what gets me. At this point, the panel had quickly turned from side-ripping comedy to a more serious tone as we all were listening silently to what Jared had to say. Everyone who watched the panel saw a spark go off in Jensen’s eyes. He immediately went from idly listening to protective-big-brother mode while Jared explained how he thinks of himself when compared to Sam’s speech in the season 8 finale. Jensen turns to his friend, no, his brother, and gives him a genuine expression of concern. Though he doesn’t say anything, you can tell that he’s asking Jared, “Are you okay?” And that’s what rips my heart out. This exact moment can clearly be seen in this screencap. The love that these two have for each other is astounding, unique, and definitely incredible. I am so glad that they will always have each other’s backs through tough times, like Jared’s situation, for example. I can say without hesitation that these two inspire me every day to Always Keep Fighting.