Quotes About Frustration

And nothing's more frustrating than having feelings you didn't decide to have.

Stress" is mostly the result of not being allowed to kill some asshole you really want to slice and dice.

Look this is hardly fair. You sold me impure petrol at black-market price and not even one shop could be put to the torch.

bir müddet daha dü?ününce dünyada da hiçbir yere ba?l? olmad???n? hissetti ve içten içe bu kadar yabanc? oldu?u bu hayatta kendisini birçok kay?tlar?n ku?atmas?na, ondan, istedi?i gibi bir hareket imkanlar?n? almas?na müthi? içerledi.

Only one thing had her balking: his cool kiss. Especially when compared to Mr. Pinter's hot ones. Curse that man. No matter how much she told herself his kisses hadn't meant anything, her wounded pride wanted to believe otherwise. Her wounded pride insisted they'd been too passionate to be meant only as a lesson. Her wounded pride was a blasted nuisance.

I have learned that frustration is allowed and talking it through is necessary.

Hoy en día, en nombre de la civilización y la etiqueta, las personas educadas no suelen experimentar plenamente ninguna de sus emociones. No pueden llorar plenamente. No pueden reírse a carcajadas. Con el paso del tiempo, la frustración se apodera de ellos y se quedan sin alegría.

I would become so choked up that sometimes I would walk in the streets until late into the night. Sometimes I would speak to no one for hours, thinking to myself about what the white man had done to our poor people here in America.

It went from fuck music to fuck-you music.

I want everything back, the way it was. But there is no point to it, this wanting.

Maybe that's what love is, I thought: it's being pissed off.

And how easily a hand becomes a fist.

What else can I do? Once you've gone this far you aren't fit for anything else. Something happens to your mind. You're overqualified, overspecialized, and everybody knows it. Nobody in any other game would be crazy enough to hire me. I wouldn't even make a good ditch-digger, I'd start tearing apart the sewer-system, trying to pick-axe and unearth all those chthonic symbols - pipes, valves, cloacal conduits... No, no. I'll have to be a slave in the paper-mines for all time.

What's with her?" says the painter. "She's mad because she's a woman," Jon says. This is something I haven't heard for years, not since high school. Once it was a shaming thing to say, and crushing to have it said about you, by a man. It implied oddness, deformity, sexual malfunction. I go to the living room doorway. "I'm not mad because I'm a woman," I say. "I'm mad because you're an asshole.

We have begun to slam doors, and to throw things. I throw my purse, an ashtray, a package of chocolate chips, which breaks on impact. We are picking up chocolate chips for days. Jon throws a glass of milk, the milk, not the glass: he knows his own strength, as I do not. He throws a box of Cheerios, unopened. The things I throw miss, although they are worse things. The things he throws hit, but are harmless. I begin to see how the line is crossed, between histrionics and murder.

I am not mad because I'm a woman... I'm mad because you're an asshole.

Experiences were what you got when you couldn't get what you wanted.

Once in a while, Jimmy would make up a word but he never once got caught out. ... He should have been pleased by his success with these verbal fabrications, but instead he was depressed by it. The memos telling him he'd done a good job meant nothing to him; all they proved was that no one was capable of appreciating how clever he had been. He came to understand why serial killers sent helpful clues to the police.

Even sex was no longer what it had once been, though he was still as addicted to it as ever. He felt jerked around by his own dick, as if the rest of him was merely an inconsequential knob that happened to be attached to one end of it. Maybe the thing would be happier if left to roam around on its own.

How dare she show herself to be everything he was so annoyed with her for not being?

The memos that came from above telling him he'd done a good job meant nothing to him because they'd been dictated by semi-literates; all they proved was that no one at AnooYou was capable of appreciating how clever he had been. He came to understand why serial killers sent helpful clues to the police.

She doesn't make speeches anymore. She has become speechless. She stays in her home, but it doesn't seem to agree with her. How furious she must be, now that she's been taken at her word.

I have a fork and a spoon, but never a knife… as if I'm lacking manual skills or teeth. I have both, however. That's why I'm not allowed a knife.

How strange to remember typewriters, with their jammed keys and snarled ribbons and the smudgy carbon paper for copies.