Quotes About Frustration

I am a restrained person. Otherwise my heart would race past my tongue to pour out everything. Instead I mumble, I gnaw myself. I lose hope. And my mind is burning.

English is a bitch

trapped in his own bad apple. Each morning a shock to return to the cut soul.

As a sweet apple turns red on a high branch, high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot— well, no they didn't forget—were not able to reach

Men know almost nothing about desire, they think it has to do with sexual activity or can be discharged that way. But sex is a substitute, like money or language. Sometimes I just want to stop seeing.

It is not that the Hegartys don't know what they want, it is that they don't know HOW to want. Something about their wanting went catastrophically astray.

Rosaleen was a nuisance. Her children thought she was a nuisance because it was true. She was. A Nuisance. Rosalene was a nightmare. She was very difficult. She was incrasingly difficult. She made her children cry.

Mrs. Van Daan's grizzling is absolutely unbearable; now she can't any longer drive us crazy over the invasion, she nags us the whole day long about the bad weather. It really would be nice to dump her in a bucket of cold water and put her up in the loft.

I love my country but hate the government and see no one, no one who can lead us.

They wrestle with why it has turned out so badly, unsure whom to blame.

They are sick of their country's being seen as nothing more than a mafia-ridden kleptocracy—even though they are the first to complain about corruption.

I am sick of rigged elections. We just know who will win, and we can't change it. They get rid of anyone who

Hurting people hurt people. And often the one who seems to get "cut" the most is the person lashing out. They nurse their pain, anger, bitterness, frustration, unforgiveness, or resentment until those emotions become their master and they are enslaved to them.

Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm sick of this poem, you probably are too.

I was fifteen years old when I began to hate people.

Goddamn it, do it yourself. You're five hundred years old and you can't use a telephone? Read the directions. What are you, an immortal idiot?

Now listen, life is lovely, but I CAN'T LIVE IT. I can't even explain. I know how silly it sounds … but if you knew how it FELT.

Personally I'd give ten thousand bucks to be a psychiatrist and not a writer.

I am not seeing anyone or writing anyone—I'm on my 8th draft of this play and how many more—God knows.

For those learning English as a second language, there is little to do but roll the eyes, tear at the hair, and grimly memorize each one.

She hated this place. Nothing made sense. Nothing worked as it was supposed to. She was supposed to be learning things as she went along, gaining strength for her final battle. All she was doing was losing things, one thing at a time.

The words kept coming and he could not stop them, not while Callie was standing there so indecipherably, and so he was going to keep talking until he used up all the words there were and then no one would be able to talk to anyone else anymore and then all anyone would have left were one another's unintelligible faces, and maybe some weird gesturing, too, and it would be all Oscar's fault.

Imagine that your own children, who you brought into the world, just walk past you. It's enough to make anybody crazy.

She resents the chipped paint of the table and the dingy closet they call a dressing room. (Dark City Lights)