Quotes About Frustration

I suppose I could call her . . . but for some reason these days dialing seven let alone eleven numbers feels like an infinite stretch. The phone's right in front of me but it's out of reach. When it rings at four AM I don't answer it. All I have to do is extend my hand but I can't run that far. Sleep never really arrives. Not even rest. There's no satisfaction anymore.

This is not fun. This isn't fair.

It's too bad. I love her. I wish it didn't have to turn out like this.

I shouldn't be surprised . . . This is Tom. This is what Tom does best. He lets you down.

He stood a few meters from the step and spoke with great conviction, great joy. Alles ist Scheisse, he announced. All is shit.

Oh, come on, Arthur. I don't want to hear it, Andy. Jesus Christ He doesn't want to hear it, either.

Mistakes, mistakes, it's all I seem capable of at times.

It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words. You bastards, she thought. You lovely bastards. Don't make me happy. Please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this.

I'm asking you, I'm begging you, could you please shut your mouth for just five minutes? You can imagine the reaction. They ended up in the basement.

That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.

I look at her wish we could go inside and make love on the couch. Dive inside each other. Take each other. Make each other. Nothing happens, though.

I love and hate this place because it is full of words.

Would I always feel so small that it hurt and that even the greatest outcry roaring from my throat was, in reality, just a whimper? Would my footsteps always stop so suddenly and sink into the footpath?

No veis la herida que tengo dentro? ¿No veis cómo se extiende y me corroe ante vuestros ojos? No quiero volver a tener esperanzas.

We don't need a point, son. We're juvenile, we're dirty, we don't have girls, we have noses full of snot, throats sore as hell, we've got scabs on us, we suffer bouts of acne, we've got no girls ... What more reasons do we need?

Feuer soll'n's brunzen fur einen Monat!' she heard her call out. Translation: 'They should all piss fire for a month!

It makes me think of my life, my nonexistent accomplishments and my overall abilities in incompetence.

although Wuthering Heights is getting on my nerves a bit now. The trouble is, Heathcliff's a completely bitter arsehole and Catherine frustrates the hell out of me. My purest hatred, however, is reserved for Joseph, the miserable, complete bastard of a servant. On top of all his preaching and carrying on, it's hard to understand a word he says.

sintió que su cuerpo se arrugaba y se hacía una pelota, como una página llena de tachones arrojada a la papelera. Como basura. Sin embargo, día tras día conseguía estirarse y alisarse, indignado y agradecido. Destrozado, pero no hecho pedazos.

Saumensch, du dreckiges—it's about time!

Mistakes, mistakes, it's all I seem capable of at times.

I was having an emotion, and I hate that.

They were all so nice and it was just excruciating. I was never taking off the helmet again. I can't do even the half-assed version of this stupid job if I have to talk to humans.

Have you noticed, now, the way people talk so loudly in snackbars and cinemas, how the shelved back gardens shudder with prodigies of talentlessness, drummers, penny-whistlers, vying transistors, the way you see and hear the curses and sign-language of high sexual drama at the bus-stops under ghosts of clouds, how life has come out of doors? And in the soaked pubs the old-timers wince and weather the canned rock. We talk louder to make ourselves heard. We will all be screamers soon.