Quotes About Frustration

I enjoy my anger, it's the only hobby I have.

It's been so long since I've let myself feel anger that I don't just feel it. It covers my mouth and I swallow it down, the taste sharp and metal as though I'm gnawing through foilware.

My mother's psychologist says I have an overactive anger switch, but people just keep pissing me off.

I am a giant squid of anger.

Do you get the anger that is out here?

I was so mad you could have boiled a pot of water on my head.

Houllier couldn't deal with players expressing any anger or questioning any of his decisions

Impotent fury rages powerless and to no purpose.

You become angry because something or someone has done something against your expectations.

He could never be happy; as an obsessive perfectionist, perfection would always stay tantalizingly out of reach

What happened to your hand? It got hit by a mirror. How'd that happen? I lost my temper at myself.

Son of a bitch, I'm sick of these dolphins.

The first time you ignored me, I was upset. Then I got mad at you. I yelled. You acted as if I didn't exist. It was weird and confusing.

The truly terrible thing about this life, was not knowing what you want, but only able to recognize what you do not want. You have to spend so much time and energy trying to find it out, time that other people spent in pursuing of their desires.

I don't have pet peeves like some people. I have whole kennels of irritation.

I should not ever live with anyone, because I just don't have the patience for it. I'm very cranky around other people.

They were built up to great expectations, and when these could not be met, they turned against those who made the promises.

It is the grand misfortune of my life that nobody will let me alone.

If I only had the privileges of a man, I would order out Sir Percival's best horse instantly, and tear away on a night-gallop, eastward, to meet the rising sun—a long, hard, heavy, ceaseless gallop of hours and hours, like the famous highwayman's ride to York. Being, however, nothing but a woman, condemned to patience, propriety, and petticoats for life, I must respect the house-keeper's opinions, and try to compose myself in some feeble and feminine way.

You hear more than enough of married people living together miserably.

The only circumstances in which I would write a roman a clef would be if I'd lost my fucking car keys.

Feelings of depression; feelings of frustration; feelings of emptiness in the face of all this randomness - done down by the haphazard, yet again.

I write - poignantly, in the most heartfelt way - about how I miss her and how I detest my life in this school and she responds with detailed plans for her future life as an archaeologist or philosopher or - new, this - a veterinary surgeon.

This is vexing: I feel in a kind of limbo - an author but not truly an author, true authorship being conferred by having a book physically published - a thing you can hold in your hand, purchase in a bookshop.