Quotes About Anger

Still think I'd be prettier if I smiled?" she asked, the words intense and full of hate. "Yeah," I replied, licking my lips. A wave of heat surged down my spine, and I felt my hips shift restlessly as my cock throbbed. "But pretty is boring. I like you better when you're pissed off. Makes me want to push you down over that desk and fuck you.

Shit," said the guy with the mohawk and skull tats. "I fucking hate it when they piss themselves.

John Quincy Adams's bald head was a barometer of anger; the redder it got, the madder he was.)

Grave Senators should never let Their angry passions rise, Their little hands were never made To scratch each other's eyes.52

The sick are all so afraid of their own uncontrollable power! Somehow they cannot believe that they are only people, holding only a human-sized anger!

Why does this faerie follow you everywhere?" he asked. "Do you think she's plotting to murder you in your sleep?" he teased. My wings and the tips of my feet tingled with anger. But then he reached a finger toward me gently, and the anger melted. "Let's name her Tinker Bell," he said, like I was their child. He swooped his hand underneath me. "Hi, little Tink." Hearing him say it thrilled me-a name Peter had invented, just for me.

It was almost as if he was giving her his silence, so that all of her anger had a place to go.

You're less of a charmer, and more of a 'fury from the depths of hell' type of person.

You'd be good at being angry," he said. "You'd get it right.

I'm lonely. Why do you think I had to learn to act so independent? I also get mad too quickly, and I hog the covers, and my second toe is longer than my big one. My hair has it's own zip code. Plus, I get certifiably crazy when I've got PMS. You don't love someone because they're perfect. You love them in spite of the fact that they're not.

At this rate I never want to talk to you again. Stay mad at me, Allie. It allows us to communicate in other ways.

This party is turning out to be the turd-encrusted cherry on the top of my shit-shake of a day.

I want to kill her." "Need me to help you find a good vein?

There was nothing to be gained by losing his temper. There was never anything to be gained by that.

That's what an idiot does when he gets angry. He destroys whatever's nearest, even if it's his own house!

West stared at her as she trudged off up the hill after the Northmen, hardly able to believe his ears. She was happy to bed that stinking savage, but he was too angry? It was so unfair he almost choked on his rage.

I'd become a woman who dreamed of yelling at people who didn't even know how infuriating I found them.

Once, she'd overheard Jessamine, who had been an expert in herbs, tell a woman how to make a homespun spermicide to prevent pregnancy. Adah had remembered the recipe and followed that advice for the remainder of the marriage, even though her apparent barrenness had angered Lester further

If you are furious, and you've exhausted your reasoned argument but still want to get a powerful emotion across, then you might say, Fuck you. What I object to is the use of these impactful words as fillers, such as when people say, What the fuck are you doing? That's lazy. How is fuck helping that particular sentence

Rose glared in Sylvie's direction with an anger she didn't understand but that made Sylvie's

Lutie watched her from the front porch. Damn white people, she thought. Damn them. And then—but it isn't that woman's fault. It's your fault. That's right, but the reason Pop came here to live was because he couldn't get a job and we had to have the State children because Jim couldn't get a job. Damn white people, she repeated.

Yet she could feel a hard, tight knot of anger and hate forming within her as she walked along. She decided to walk home, hoping that the anger would evaporate on the way. She moved in long, swift strides. There was a hard sound to her heels clicking against the sidewalk and she tried to make it louder. Hard, hard, hard. That was the only way to be--so hard that nothing, the street, the house, the people--nothing would ever be able to touch her.

I have a knife in my hand, slicing beef on the willowware plate, and I cut harder, faster, thinking it is your pink neck under my blade and I am cutting you into little pieces that I will bury in the meadow outside when there is no moon.

I'm not grieving, I'm not angry, and only darkness accompanies me. How deep it is and velvety, above all, always familiar to me…