Wake Up And Grind Quotes

But in truth, the world is constantly shifting: shape and size, location in space. It's got edges and chasms, too many to count. They open up, close, reappear somewhere else. Geologists nay have mapped out the planet's tectonic plates -hidden shelves of rock that grind, one against the other, forming mountains, creating continents - but thy can't plot the fault lines that run through our heads, divide out hearts. The map of the world is always changing; sometimes it happens overnight. All it takes is the blink of an eye, the squeeze of a trigger, a sudden gust of wind. Wake up and your life is perched on a precipice; fall asleep, it swallows you whole

Loving she realises is a verb. It is an act. It is not enough to say you love someone, and then forget about them, or trust a relationship will stay strong simply because you share a house or children or a life. Loving requires acts of love. It requires thinking of your spouse, doing things for them to make them happy. It requires acting in loving ways, even when you are tired, or bogged down with work, or so stressed you are waking up every night with a jaw sore from grinding your teeth. They forgot to do that, she now knows. They forgot to love each other. They expected love to continue, without putting any work into it, and today she knows this is why her marriage failed.

Well, I’m going to tell you the best and the worst thing you’ve ever heard. Heroes aren’t born. You just go out there and grind it out. You fail and you look foolish and you just keep grinding. There is nothing else. There is no ‘chosen one,’ there is no destiny, nobody wakes up one day and finds out they’re amazing at something. There’s just slamming your head into the wall, refusing to take no for an answer. Being relentless, until either the wall or your head breaks. You want to be a hero? You don’t have to make some grand decision. There’s no inspirational music, there’s no montage. You just don’t quit.

I knew I was in love with Lorri when I started to wake up in the middle of the night furious and cursing her for making me feel the way she did. It was pain beyond belief. Nothing has ever hurt me that way. I tried to sleep as much as possible just to escape. I was grinding my teeth down to nubs. Now, years later, it's exactly the opposite. Now there is no pain, yet she still makes my heart explode. Now there is only fun and love and silliness. She drives me to frenzy, because I can never get enough.

My mother is with me most nights, though. She was is my first love. I dream her fiercely and in those dreams I love her and get angry and shake her and bite, grind my teeth and wake up, full of everything.

Because the other way wasn’t working. The waking up just to get the day over with until it was time for bed. The grinding it out was a disgrace, an affront to the honor and long shot of being alive at all.

As much as I don’t like waking up to Henry’s guilty face, I like this sexy-but-caring-dad thing you’ve got going on.” “Don’t even joke, Anastasia.” His whole demeanor changed, and the grinding against me resumed instantly. “Because I will put a baby in you right now, and you’ll be stuck teaching bratty little skaters like Brady.

It’s like I have this demon inside of me, and I want it gone, but the idea of removing it via pill is . . . I don’t know . . . weird. But a lot of days I get over that, because I do really hate the demon.” “You often try to understand your experience through metaphor, Aza: It’s like a demon inside of you; you’ll call your consciousness a bus, or a prison cell, or a spiral, or a whirlpool, or a loop, or a—I think you once called it a scribbled circle, which I found interesting.” “Yeah,” I said. “One of the challenges with pain—physical or psychic—is that we can really only approach it through metaphor. It can’t be represented the way a table or a body can. In some ways, pain is the opposite of language.” She turned to her computer, shook her mouse to wake it up, and then clicked an image on her desktop. “I want to share something Virginia Woolf wrote: ‘English, which can express the thoughts of Hamlet and the tragedy of Lear, has no words for the shiver and the headache. . . . The merest schoolgirl, when she falls in love, has Shakespeare or Keats to speak her mind for her; but let a sufferer try to describe a pain in his head to a doctor and language at once runs dry.’ And we’re such language-based creatures that to some extent we cannot know what we cannot name. And so we assume it isn’t real. We refer to it with catch-all terms, like crazy or chronic pain, terms that both ostracize and minimize. The term chronic pain captures nothing of the grinding, constant, ceaseless, inescapable hurt. And the term crazy arrives at us with none of the terror and worry you live with. Nor do either of those terms connote the courage people in such pains exemplify, which is why I’d ask you to frame your mental health around a word other than crazy.

I can feel the irrationality and anxiety draining my store of energy like a battery-operated racecar grinding away in the corner. This is energy I will need to get through the next day. But I just lie in bed and watch it burn, and with it any hope for a productive tomorrow. There go the dishes, there goes the grocery store, there goes exercise, there goes bringing in the garbage cans. There goes basic human kindness. I wake up in a sweat so thorough I sleep with a pitcher of water by the bed or I might die of dehydration

Um-Nadia says that great food needs darkness. It requires letting the dough inhale the very early morning and letting the kabobs drink up wine and garlic all night long, and- on occasion- it requires stuffing the small birds, squabs, pigeons, and other sweet, wild game under the round moon, "when they have let go of their songs," Um-Nadia says. Sirine dreams of cooking and wakes to thoughts of cooking- even when she can't stand the old smells of rancid butter and oils hanging in her hair. She still wakes too early, to grind and salt the lamb by hand, to fan the parsley over the chopping block.

Getting into fights with people makes my heart race. Not getting into fights with people makes my heart race. Even sleeping makes my heart race! I'm lying in bed when the thumping arrives, like a foreign invader. It's a horrible dark mass, like the monolith in 2001, self-organized but completely unknowable, and it enters my body and releases adrenaline. Like a black hole, it sucks in any benign thoughts that might be scrolling across my brain and attaches visceral panic to them. For instance, during the day I might have mused, Hey, I should pack more fresh fruit in Bee's lunch. That night, with the arrival of The Thumper, it becomes, I'VE GOT TO PACK MORE FRESH FRUIT IN BEE'S LUNCH!!! I can feel the irrationality and anxiety draining my store of energy like a battery-operated racecar grinding away in the corner. This is energy I will need to get through the next day. But I just lie in bed and watch it burn, and with it any hope for a productive tomorrow. There go the dishes, there goes the grocery store, there goes exercise, there goes bringing in the garbage cans. There goes basic human kindness. I wake up in a sweat so through I sleep with a pitcher of water by the bed or I might die of dehydration.

Because the other way wasn’t working. The waking up just to get the day over with until it was time for bed. The grinding it out was a disgrace, an affront to the honor and long shot of being alive at all. The ghost-walking, the short-tempered distraction, the hurried fog. (All of this I’m just assuming, because I have no idea how I come across, my consciousness is that underground, like a toad in winter.) The leaving the world a worse place just by being in it. The blindness to the destruction in my wake. The Mr. Magoo. If I’m forced to be honest, here’s an account of how I left the world last week: worse, worse, better, worse, same, worse, same. Not an inventory to make one swell with pride. I don’t necessarily need to make the world a better place, mind you. Today, I will live by the Hippocratic oath: first do no harm. How hard can it be? Dropping off Timby, having my poetry lesson (my favorite part of life!), taking a yoga class, eating lunch with Sydney Madsen, whom I can’t stand but at least I can check her off the list (more on that later), picking up Timby, and giving back to Joe, the underwriter of all this mad abundance. You’re trying to figure out, why the agita surrounding one normal day of white-people problems? Because there’s me and there’s the beast in me.

Getting into fights with people makes my heart race. Not getting into fights with people makes my heart race. Even sleeping makes my heart race! I’m lying in bed when the thumping arrives, like a foreign invader. It’s a horrible dark mass, like the monolith in 2001, self-organized but completely unknowable, and it enters my body and releases adrenaline. Like a black hole, it sucks in any benign thoughts that might be scrolling across my brain and attaches visceral panic to them. For instance, during the day I might have mused, Hey, I should pack more fresh fruit in Bee’s lunch. That night, with the arrival of The Thumper, it becomes, I’VE GOT TO PACK MORE FRESH FRUIT IN BEE’S LUNCH!!! I can feel the irrationality and anxiety draining my store of energy like a battery-operated racecar grinding away in the corner. This is energy I will need to get through the next day. But I just lie in bed and watch it burn, and with it any hope for a productive tomorrow. There go the dishes, there goes the grocery store, there goes exercise, there goes bringing in the garbage cans. There goes basic human kindness. I wake up in a sweat so thorough I sleep with a pitcher of water by the bed or I might die of dehydration.

The very first dram Ronan had ever been truly proud of, truly euphoric over, had been a copy. It had been in high school. Ronan wasn't good at surviving high school and he wasn't good at surviving friendship, and so while his friend Gansey's back was turned, he'd stolen Gansey's car. It was a beautiful car. A 1973 bright orange Camaro with stripes right up its hood and straight down its ass. Ronan had wanted to drive it for months, despite Gansey forbidding it. Maybe because of him forbidding it. Within hours of stealing it, Ronan had totaled it. Gansey hadn't wanted him to drive it because he thought he'd grind the clutch, or curb it, or burn out the tires, or maybe, maybe blow the engine. And here Ronan had totaled it. Ronan had loved Richard C. Gansey III far more than he loved himself at that point, and he hadn't known how he was ever going to face him when he returned from out of town. And then, Joseph Kavinsky had taught him to dream a copy. Before that, all of Ronan's dreams--that he knew about, Matthew didn't count--had been accidents and knickknacks, the bizarre and the useless. When he'd successfully copied a car, an entire car, he'd been out of his mind with glee. The dreamt car had been perfect down to the last detail. Exactly like the original. The pinnacle of dreaming. Now a copy was the least impressive thing to him. He could copy anything he put his mind to. That just made him a very ethereal photocopier. A one-man 3-D printer. The dreams he was proud of now were the dreams that were originals. Dreams that couldn't exist in any other way. Dreams that took full advantage of the impossibility of dreamspace in a way that was cunning or lovely or effective or all of the above. The sundogs. Lindenmere. Dreams that had to be dreams. In the past, all his good dreams like this were gifts from Lindenmere or accidents rather than things he had consciously constructed. He was beginning to realize, after listening to Bryde, that this was because he'd been thinking too small. His consciousness was slowly becoming the shape of the concrete, waking world, and it was shrinking all his dreams to the probable. He needed to start realizing that possible and impossible didn't mean the same thing for him as they did for other people. He needed to break himself of the habit of rules, of doubts, of physics. His "what if" had grown so tame. "You are made of dreams and this world is not for you." He would not let the nightwash take him and Matthew. He would not let this world kill him slowly. He deserved a place here, too. He woke.

Life with out a dream is Hell. Go for what you want - and you're winner. Dont listen to the nosayers they never get it write. There are so many bullsh*t quotes out there and motivational speeches, grind and work twenty three hours a day. wake up at five and run. Well i'm not a morning person person. Yet I will tell you strieght - if you want to stand aside of the crown and achieve. Then working hard and sacrifcie will be part of it. One in ten thousand finish a manuscript, one in twenty thousand get it edited and offer it up for scutiny. I have written seven so far and the words do come quicker and you learn the tricks of the trade, but the only way you will be come a confident wordsmith is by "writing and writing and writing. Good luck Steve

I weighed myself twice daily, and within two weeks I’d dropped twenty-five pounds. My progress only improved as I kept grinding, and the weight started peeling off. Ten days later I was at 250, light enough to begin doing push-ups, pull-ups, and to start running my ass off. I’d still wake up, hit the stationary bike, the pool, and the gym, but I also incorporated two-, three-, and four-mile runs. I ditched my running shoes and ordered a pair of Bates Lites, the same boots SEAL candidates wear in BUD/S, and started running in those.

At 12:05 A.M.—25 minutes after that bumping, grinding jar—Captain Smith ordered Chief Officer Wilde to uncover the boats … First Officer Murdoch to muster the passengers … Sixth Officer Moody to get out the list of boat assignments … Fourth Officer Boxhall to wake up Second Officer Lightoller and Third Officer Pitman. The Captain himself then walked about 20 yards down the port side of the Boat Deck to the wireless shack.

Rich Roll is an inspiring guy. He’s a plant-based nutrition enthusiast, a #1 bestselling author, and according to Men’s Fitness magazine, one of the twenty five most fittest men in the world. One of Rich’s defining qualities is his dedication to dedication itself. He believes we live in a hack culture, where people seek to find the quickest, easiest route to success. And I agree. Hustling isn’t always about hacking. It’s just as much, if not more, about grinding. Here’s Rich:   So if you have a passion and aspire to greatness―if you want to see what you are truly made of, or just how far you can go and what you are truly capable of―forget the hack. Commit to the daily pressure that compels infinitesimal progress over time. Wake up before dawn and apply yourself in silent anonymity. Practice your craft―in whatever shape or form that may be―late into the evening with relentless rigor. Embrace the fear. Let go of perfection. Allow yourself to fail. Welcome the obstacles. Forget the results. Give yourself over to your passion with every fiber of who you are. And live out the rest of your days trying to do better.   I can’t promise that you will succeed in the way our culture inappropriately defines the term. But I can absolutely guarantee that you will become deeply acquainted with who you truly are. You will touch and exude passion. And discover what it means to be truly alive.

You can either complain about it or grind, I choose to grind.

I wake up when a hand slips under my shirt and settles on my hip. I have no idea what time it is, but based on the angle of sunlight streaming through my window, I’m going to take a wild guess that it’s way too fucking early for Blake to be waking me up right now. Especially since I didn’t go to bed until almost three in the morning. I groan when Blake’s morning wood prods me in the ass. “Stick your yuletide log somewhere else. I’m sleeping.” Kissing my shoulder, he grinds his erection against me. “Should I stick it in your chimney?” “That depends. Is the chimney my ass?” “Only if you want it to be.” I laugh. “Yeah, no. That’s exit only.” “Why does that not surprise me?” I grin and glance over my shoulder. “What are you saying? That I’m a prude?” “No. I’m saying that your asshole’s lived a very sheltered life.

Cast him into the darkness outside, where there will be wailing and grinding of teeth. (Matthew 22:13) How crowded is heaven? How about hell? Theologians have debated this question for centuries. Some have taught that everyone (or almost everyone) will get to heaven. Others have argued that only a few will be saved. Who is right? No one really knows. Whatever the answer is, today’s Gospel reading makes one thing clear: heaven isn’t a matter of who is worthy or unworthy. It’s a matter of who accepts God’s invitation and who rejects it. Throughout the Gospels, we see Jesus using exaggeration to make his point. He doesn’t really want us to cut off our hands or pluck out our eyes (Matthew 5:29-30). He is doing a similar thing in today’s passage by telling such an extreme story. But there is always a point to these exaggerations: we will all face a final judgment, and it’s risky to remain indifferent or to treat his invitation lightly. Where do you stand? Have you done your own risk-reward analysis? Take some time today to think about it. Whether you believe heaven is for the few or the many, the risk of being kept away from it is too great to ignore.  The good news is that none of us has to take that risk! God didn’t mean for it to be hard for us to accept his invitation to eternal life. He hasn’t set out a daunting obstacle course for us to master before he will admit us to heaven. All he wants us to do is to believe that Jesus has saved us and to try our best to follow him. So when you wake up every day, tell the Lord, “Jesus, I believe you are my Savior and Lord. I accept your invitation. I don’t want anything to keep me away from you today.” And every evening before you go to sleep, tell him, “Lord, I’m sorry for the ways I failed you. Give me your grace to do better tomorrow.” It’s that simple. “Jesus, I accept your invitation. I want to be with you both now and forever.

No, life has no soundtrack, just the daily grind occasionally alleviated by short-lived bursts of happiness—a vacation, the birth of a child, retirement. This is my life and the life of everyone I know—all my friends, all my family members, everyone with whom I have more than a passing acquaintance. I’ve spent nearly forty-five years on this planet, and the majority of those years—my adult years, my reality-based years—have shown me that the adventure Molly and John had no longer exists. This is why I so want Molly to wake up and tell me that I’m wrong.

reclaiming our divinity, given to us by our birth. The concept of filling up your cup first, so you can have enough in it to pour to others feels off balance. It reeks of the capitalist language that is now a part of our daily mantras. Language like “I will sleep when I am dead,” “Rise and grind,” “While they sleep, I grind,” “If it doesn’t make money, it doesn’t make sense,” “Wake up to hustle,” and many more. The cup metaphor also is most often geared toward women, who, because of patriarchy and sexism, carry the burden of labor. Marginalized women, specifically Black

I wake up and grind like the whole world owes me money. I'm taking that money like I'm owed.

Continuing her slow spiral, Lexis surreptitiously reaches into her belt. The pouch is there, like it has been from the moment her father gave it to her. She digs her fingers in. One pinch will help you sleep. The powder is bitter and gritty on her tongue, her chest twisting in the way she won’t let show on her features. Double that and they’re not waking up. She quickly takes the second pinch, grinding it between her teeth with determination.

Waking up early maintains your self-discipline. Get up and read, workout, journal, meditate or grind. How you start the day sets the tone.

Trucks with coughing klaxons speeded up, here, to make the grade to the bridge, the vast resounding grinding structure of the Queensboro bridge. The traffic was incoherent bedlam. Trolleys danged and clanged up the slope. Overhead the L exploded periodically with the supernatural rush and roar of a rocket-train out of the comics. His eyes fixed on his goal, he passed through it all like a sleepwalker in a nightmare, shaken by every insane noise but with one increasing purpose in his reeling mind: to reach the end of the dream and wake up.

But my lack of panties has given him easy access. I press my ass back against his hard length, moaning when I feel his hardness pressed against me. “I was hoping to fuck you in your sleep, Little Lamb,” he rumbles, and the admission makes me grind down into his hand. That shouldn’t be so hot. I shouldn’t want that. But fuck I do. The idea of waking up with one of them inside me, of them using my body the way they need while I’m asleep, does something to me that I don’t allow myself to analyze. “Fuck, you like the sound of that, don’t you, Little Lamb?” he murmurs against the shell of my ear as he presses two fingers to my entrance, teasing me but not slipping inside where I need him. “Your little cunt is so wet at the idea. I bet you’d come so prettily as you woke up, dazed and confused.

I try to picture it, what my life is going to look like in six months. Option One: I go first round. I end up on the East Coast, with one of the teams that’s been after me since the season started. New city. New apartment. New everything. I wake up, go to practice, and grind every damn day to prove I belong there, that I deserve the spot I was given. I go home to an empty place. I eat dinner alone. I stare at my phone, wondering if she’s thought about me, wondering if she even cares where I ended up. Wondering if she’s still here, on campus, finishing her last semester, pretending we never happened. Option Two: The exact same thing—except Madison is there. Except she’s waiting for me after practice, curled up on my couch, stealing my hoodies like they belong to her. Except we’re cooking dinner together, laughing as she burns the garlic bread, sneaking kisses while the TV plays in the background. Except she’s in the crowd at my first game, wearing my number, her hands tucked into the sleeves of my oversized sweatshirt, proud of me. Mine. I blink hard, forcing my grip to loosen on the wheel. But that future? It doesn’t exist.

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