One of the benefits of an interest art piece is that it will force you to think. The right piece will challenge your reality, bring out a specific emotion, or just leave you feeling a bit puzzled. Here are 28 of our picks for the most striking pieces of

A selection of the best images from around the world

You know something is off. Perhaps, it's his recent mood swings. Perhaps, you feel like he's withdrawn or is hiding something. Or maybe, you can't put your finger on exactly what it is, but your intuition is telling you something is amiss. You've…

Many people wonder what anxiety really feels like. Is it just stress? Is it still anxiety if you don't have a panic attack? Look to this collection of "This is what anxiety feels like" quotes, memes and illustrations to better understand stress symptoms and anxiety disorders.

103-year-old army veteran attributes his long life to being a girl dad.

They have some valid points on some of these.

Relationship Quotes sayings about life. We collected the best 337+ Relationships Quotes with images. "If you love someone, set them free. Health is the

How to get people to like you -- it's a tricky problem. Here the head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Program explains how to make people like you quickly.

If you want to know where your heart is, look to where your mind goes when it wandersWe only live once, but if we do it right, that is more than enough Absence diminishes minor passions and increases great ones, like the wind extinguishes candles and fans firesA man saves his…

The Good Vibe

Having a crush on someone can make you feel like you're walking on air when you're around that person and these 45 crush quotes hit home.

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When I was about 13 years old, my mother and I took a trip to New York City. The reason for the trip was so that my mother could check up on my father’s business partners in one of his latest ventu…

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Comics and illustrations that hold a mirror up to society really appeal to me, partially because they can be an effective catalyst for change but mostly because they're so frank they make the people they're referencing uncomfortable.It's also quite brilliant when a comic artist can actually pinpoint something stupid in our society that we can all agree is stupid- like the fact that money matters can kill a friendship.Colombian illustrator Sako Asko draws up strange panels populated by ordinary people and...

/ over and over and over again.

If you want to be good at something, you must first be willing to be bad at it. - Quotlr.com

If there’s one clothing item that tends to naturally pile up, it’s t-shirts. Chances are, you own at least a few (or maybe a few hundred — who are we to judge?) that represent something to you. There are your favorite ones like the perfect white tee or the shirt you got at your beloved band's concert. Then there are the commemorative ones you just happen to own from when you volunteered or ran a marathon 10 years ago. And then there’s a whole other category of tees that speaks to you and speaks for you in the funniest way possible.

Thinking of something to say after an argument is over is the worst feeling. But with the best comebacks to tuck into your brain, and funny quotes for every circumstance, you'll always have the last word.

"Kind of like Banksy with a Moleskine and some Sharpies, the Quoteskine project takes doodling to a whole new level"

“The Torn Skirt is a hot book, a thrilling romance of teen rage and longing — like S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, except about girls.”  — Mary Gaitskill, author of Two Girls, Fat and Thin At Mt. Douglas (a.k.a. Mt. Drug) High, all the girls have feathered hair, and the sweet scent of Love's Baby Soft can't hide the musk of raw teenage anger, apathy, and desire. Sara Shaw is a girl full of fever and longing, a girl looking for something risky, something real. Her only possible salvation comes in the willowy form of the mysterious Justine, the outlaw girl in the torn skirt. The search for Justine will lead Sara on a daring odyssey into an underworld of hookers and johns, junkies and thieves, runaway girls and skater boys, and, ultimately, into a violent tragedy. Product DetailsISBN-13: 9780061567100 Media Type: Paperback Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Publication Date: 08-12-2008 Pages: 224 Product Dimensions: 5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.50(d) Age Range: 16 - 18 Years Series: P.S.About the Author REBECCA GODFREY was an award-winning novelist and journalist. Her first novel, The Torn Skirt, was a national bestseller and a finalist for the Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize. Under The Bridge received one of Canada's largest literary awards, the British Columbia Award for Canadian Nonfiction, as well as the Arthur Ellis Award for Excellence in Crime Writing. She held an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College, and received fellowships from Yaddo and The MacDowell Colony. She taught writing at Columbia University, and lived with her family in upstate New York. She died in 2022.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt The Torn Skirt Chapter One Blame it on the Pleasure Family. Blame it on the Vietnam War. Blame it on a lot of things. But don't blame it on Justine. She was just a weak, scared girl; a lost, violent girl. A lot of things, she was. Was. Or don't blame it on anything. Call it inevitable, call it the doomed fate of love. Call it karmic, fucked up, the dance of the wolves. Live it, love it, call it life. Call it Led Zeppelin. Yeah, yeah. Really, I don't really, really don't fucking care. I was born with a fever, but it seemed to subside for sixteen years. High school, I was a good girl. I was pretty, I smiled, I fit in fine. And then as I turned sixteen and stopped smiling, the fever returned, though my skin stayed pale and sure, showing no sign of the heat inside me. 102 degrees, it returned for no reason. It returned around the time I met Justine, but blame it on her bad influence and you'd be all wrong. I come out into the kitchen, have my little chat with the cop. Unsmiling, I get to him. I'm sure of it. All the teen girls on this hick island have flipped-back Farrah Fawcett hair, willing-to-please eyes shadowed in baby blue. Me, in my little shredded dress and desecrated eyes. I don't shock him, but I'm not what he hoped for. He writes something in his pad. Teenage Girl. Angst-Ridden. Badly Dyed Hair. The cop, thirty or so, with a mustache and the dullest eyes, doesn't ask about Justine. He asks what time I expect my mother back. "Is that relevant to the case?" "Relevant? That's a big word for a little girl." Suddenly, I'm nauseous. I'm reeling. I'm realizing all the things I don't have words for. The worldfor him a pad of dates, names, serial numbers, license plates. He'd need a soundtrack for his report, a rush of images: her legs alone, her legs kicking backwards, the slit of her skirt ripping as she ran, her legs like wishbones. Some more notes in his pad now; I imagine them. Single-Parent Family. Headed by Father. That Crazy Diehard Hippie. And get this: the cop is checking me out. I thought the sight of me might disgust him, but I should have known. just because I'm soft-skinned and sixteen, they get this sick, weak look. Speed kicking in, not making me mellow, lazy, hazy, and high. Making me violent and blue, restless and aware of all the things I've got to do. All the things I've got to do. "Touch my forehead," I tell him. He does this, with little hesitation. "You're hot." "Yeah, I seem to be coming down with a bit of a fever." "Maybe you should lie down and we can talk in your room." "This whole thing has been very disturbing for me." "I'm sure it has been," he says. "Disturbing, that's a good word." He stands up. Moves toward me. "I have a fever," I tell him. "You'd better stay away." I head for my bedroom, and hear him walking away past the marijuana plants that line my father's shelves. He's left my house and gone to jerk off, I bet. Jerk off in the front seat of his cruiser. I'm in my bedroom and he's imagining me here. A little girlyworld of Maybelline and heartthrobs Scotch-taped above pink pillows. Really, it's a bare room of white walls and Justine's books and skirts scattered all over the floor. I try to sleep, but sleep's not easy when you're on speed. I guess the cop never left because now he's knocking on my door. I ask him to leave; I tell him I'm too hot to talk. Fuck. He says we must, but I won't. Just laughing at the thought of him banging down the bedroom door of a teenage girl. He imagines it pink and soft. He has no idea. In The Bushes With The Burnout Boys I guess all this shit started when I was in the bush. I loved the bush. Behind our school, it was like some tangled, rising creature, hands reaching skyward; a thousand savage, skinny fingers. Evergreens and Scotch pines twisting with blackberry bushes and dead oaks. Mornings before school, I used to head into it with my stupid Swiss Army knife. Hack and chop a path leading into a clearing. And at lunch hour, I'd bring the burnout boys in. I'm not making this up: the burnout boys all had one-syllable names: Bryce, Bruce, Dean, and Dale. They were only a bit wayward, but they thought they were real rebels. Bragging as they brought out their plastic baggies of mushrooms and weed. May: the bush was rainsoaked; we were whacked around as we went in. I lifted branches back, holding them so the burnouts could enter. We sat on the ground, in a dry place, hidden from the concrete slab of our school. Here, the mountains faded from view. The blue sky went white. It began to rain again, the pale, common May rain. I sat down on the dirt, lay back with my hair on a broad, mossy rock. The air smelled great at this moment -- it smelled like rot and rain and Christmas. Bryce drove his red pickup truck to the bush and opened the front door. Twelve o'clock: the Power Hour. Burnouts loved the Power Hour. Heaven. For them. They know every word. They sang along, pretending guitars were in their hands. They sang the Lemon Song to me. Squeeze me baby so the juice runs down my leg. My father used to say his generation fucked up in a lot of ways, but at least they invented rock and roll... The Torn Skirt. Copyright © by Rebecca Godfrey. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Show More Reading Group Guide Reading Group Guide I was born with a fever, but it seemed to subside for sixteen years.... And then as I turned sixteen and stopped smiling, the fever returned though my skin stayed pale and sure, showing no sign of the heat inside me.<

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Without great solitude no serious work is possible.

SYDNEY, 24... follow me... instagram @yemisul

Words may sting, but silence is what breaks the heart. There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s a lot wrong with the world you live in. I don’t miss him, I miss who I thought he was. Love is an irre…