Quotes About Frustration

i'm worse at what i do best.

Der Satiriker ist ein gekränkter Idealist: er will die Welt gut haben, sie ist schlecht, und nun rennt er gegen das Schlechte hin.

When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth.

Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion... I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

It's just hard to love someone who cancels the cable right before the Walking Dead marathon.

For all its size and sophistication, even the American military was capable of little more than a lengthy string of elaborate failures.

They'd said it would get easier. They'd lied.

All men are rabbits," she retorts, her eyes flying open. "They sniff around, fuck whatever's available, and then they run off. Fucking rabbits. And we're Elmer Fudd, inadvertently blowing up our own lives while obsessively trying to hunt one down.

because he came here on the wrong day, because he was born in the wrong time, because he had been born, it was all wrong from the very beginning, he should have known, should have sensed, that today was not the day to begin anything, nor was tomorrow, there were no days before him now, as there had never even been any, just as there was not and never would be a day...

Carnsarn ye for a pair of busted-down, walleyed, spavined ignorantipedes! Gettin' so a man can't even git ten winks on his own chuck wagon without you buzzard baits clownin' up!

His valet! In the rush of getting him off, his clumsy damned valet had put the wrong boots on him. Oh, when he got home ... when he got home he would have the oaf punctured! Worse. Dragged through the streets and bitten to death by small children.

There is no mistaking the dismay on the face of a writer who has just learned that his brain child is a deformed idiot.

There is no mistaking the dismay on the face of a writer who has just heard that his brain child is a deformed idiot.

Morning Star log, Nov. 24. Ain't got nothing good to say. Seas still high. Black clouds out there and black clouds in my mind. To hell with this. To hell with everything.

Lewis: "Oh, no." Kaitlyn: "Lewis?" Lewis: "Hi, Kaitlyn. Hi. Rob." Rob: "G'way, Lewis. I'm sleeping." Kaitlyn: "Hi. Anna." Anna: "Hi, Kait." Lewis: "Hi, Anna." Gabriel: "And good night, John-Boy! Shut the hell up, all of you!

What do you do with somebody who keeps killing you over and over?

Ordinary men commonly condemn what is beyond them.

I always think I'm lazy, maybe I could do better, I could make more effort and I always have the feeling that there is a glass wall that I cannot get through. But maybe when I get through, then it's over.

So violent. You want to mug and tase everybody these days." "I do," Zuzana agreed. "I swear I hate more poeple every day. Everyone annoys me. If I'm like this now, what am I going to be like when I'm old?" "You'll be the mean old biddy who fires a BB gun at kids from her balcony." "Nah. BBs just rile 'em up. More like a crossbow. Or a bazooka.

There was a man who loved the moon, but whenever he tried to embrace her, she broke into a thousand pieces and left him drenched, with empty arms.

So here we are, talking about Roman unicycles and alien sandwiches and my sister's Italian misfortunes, while hanging in between us is: MY EPIC FAILURE TO CARPE. What's wrong with me?

I feel liquefied, like a cucumber forgotten in the crisper drawer, and I want to hold myself at arm's length and carry me to the trash. Who is this sack of slush masquerading as me? It's intolerable.

Who had ever expended so much passion on a dream, only to stand helpless as it was granted to others? Others, moreover, who had expended no passion on it at all.

Not that I'm not keen to talk to him. I am --in the fantasy version of tonight, anyway, in which I actually manage to string words into sentences, and not just random magnetic-poetry sentences, but sentences that don't lead to the logical conclusion that I have brain damage.