Quotes About Frustration

If I was any more pleased with you, I would lose what little remains of my sanity.

I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing, ace, but this Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde shit ain't cutting it with me.

I can't change what happened, but I can sure as shit get pissed that you want to cut me off because of it. You laid out your rules and I adjusted to accommodate them, but you won't make even a tiny adjustment for me. You have to meet me halfway.

Don't take that tone with me, Gideon. I'm tired of being an open book for you while you hoard all your secrets.

I stared at him over the rim of my mug and didn't say anything. Gideon shoved his shirttails into his slacks with obvious frustration. Fine. Thank you. You could refrain from grinning like the Cheshire cat, he muttered.

He answered the phone, she hissed, before he was done. He answered the fucking phone and started talking about an inspection at one of his properties. Midconversation he looked at me lying there waiting for him and he said, 'You can go.' Just like that. He treated me like a whore, only I didn't get paid. He didn't even offered me a drink. I closed my eyes. Jesus.

I threw my head back and screamed bloody murder, completely fed up with everyone in my life.

The last time I called, you were too busy to give me more than a minute of your time." "I've got things to take care of, Eva. Give me a break." "Sure thing. How about now?" I hung up and dropped my phone back into my bag.

Moving to my desk, I leaned against it and crossed my arms. I should've seen it coming, considering how irate Christopher had become at the Times Square launch of the "Golden" video. He wanted Kline and Eva together. More than that, he wanted Eva and me apart.

I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn't say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed.

I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't, the way Doreen did, and this made me even sadder and more tired.

I hated men because they didn't stay around and love me like a father: I could prick holes in them & show they were no father-material. I made them propose and then showed them they hadn't a chance. I hated men because they didn't have to suffer like a woman did. They could die or go to Spain. They could have fun while a woman had birth pangs. They could gamble while a woman skimped on the butter on the bread. Men, nasty lousy men.

I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.

I think I am mad sometimes.

I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.

What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And what do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones, and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited. Yet I am not a cretin: lame, blind, and stupid.

I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.

Worse even than your maddening song, your silence. -

What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.

I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.

But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.

From now on when a boy starts telling me about his lost loves I am going to run in the opposite direction screaming loudly... Somehow I bring out such confidences, and I'm pretty sick of hearing about Bobbe or Dorothy or P.K. or Liota. God damn them all.