Quotes About Frustration

Wishes are sometimes just stories that have nowhere to go.

I understand Tea Partyers' anger with the system, but they are in way over their heads and often racially motivated, and I can't be part of that.

I have bad luck with women. A woman I was dating told me on the phone, "I have to go, there's a telemarketer on the other line."

Children are so innocent and full of life. They have no expectations, no misgivings and thus, no frustration.

I believed I was a salamander, and it seems I am nothing but an impediment.

The trouble with emergencies is," she said, "that I always put on my finest underwear and then nothing happens.

There's insanity on both sides of the debate when you argue with an idiot.

I hate writing. I so intensely hate writing -- I cannot tell you how much. The moment I am at the end of one project I have the idea that I didn't really succeed in telling what I wanted to tell, that I need a new project -- it's an absolute nightmare. But my whole economy of writing is in fact based on an obsessional ritual to avoid the actual act of writing.

Even little old ladies seem to drive like demons in Germany. By comparison, when we were balked by them I felt I could have got out and walked faster.

Meet Curly and Mo," I said. "I want you to divide into two groups and form an orderly queue to give these two a bit of stick. Basically, do what you like to them. Punch them, kick them, knee them in the knackers. Pretend they're your boss, your spouse, or whoever's been giving you grief lately.

Humans, we just hop out of things, off things. We splatter ourselves in inappropriate places. Because we have nothing to live for. Because we want to destroy what we can. Because we want to be something we can't. Because we don't really believe we can die.

I don't have to bitch, because Bunny's doing enough for all of us. Clearly Miss Homemaker doesn't find hiking as easy as pie, because she's cursing in time to our footsteps, and instead of hearing left, left, I left my wife and forty-eight kids home in the kitchen in starving' condition with nothing but gingerbread left, left I hear shit, shit, these bugs are like shit, shit. . . .

When he was very excited, [John Singer] Sargent would rush at his canvas with his brush poised for attack, yelling, 'Demons, demons, demons!' When he was particularly angry or frustrated, he expressed these feelings with 'Damn,' the only curse he allowed himself. He once had the expletive inscribed on a rubber stamp so he could have the satisfaction of pounding it on a piece of paper.

Everything makes me angry, unless it makes me sad.

He'd died. Plain and simple. And it pissed him off. Left him frustrated and disappointed. Where had all , the guardian angel crap they'd fed him in catechism gone to? He'd seen no angels, seraphim, archangels or pearly gates. No one to show him the ropes now that he was dead. What the hell was he supposed to do?

She was constantly prying us apart, pitting us against each other. We fought out of frustration

You happy you got her to run away?" "Thrilled to death," he replied bitterly as he closed the door behind her.

If women resent men's tendency to offer solutions to problems, men complain about women's refusal to take action to solve the problems.

good," I said, "but why can't a great-looking, successful guy open up to me, too?

An erect building is a shackled slave. I hear the mutinous grumbling of vertical buildings. I hear the grinding frustration of those compelled against their will to remain standing. A building is energy crucified against space and time.

You could wear the horns off a billy goat, you know that? Are you purposely trying to make me mad?

Quit bullying Mr. Carlisle," Billy said. "He's simply trying to help." Hunter made a slicing action with his hand. "Not another word, Billy." Narrowing her eyes, she leaned right up to him. "I'll talk if I want to, when I want to, and how I want to. Lalalalalalalalalala." Sweet mother of all that is good and holy, but he wanted to wring her neck.

On the surface, everyday life has become much more comfortable than ever before. Yet people still lead lives of quiet desperation. The source of this desperation is repression, a sense that you cannot be what you want to be, cannot feel what you want to feel, cannot do what you want to do.

Just as in life, frustration leads to bitterness, and anger destroys the capacity for joy. It's through tiny losses more than big ones that we have all forgotten the innocence of leela.