Quotes About Frustration

You put up with little things … and then the little things gradually get bigger.

You're having one of those days of accumulating misery when you argue violently with someone in a position of power: a bank teller, a dry cleaner, a three-year-old.

If only she could have e-mailed or texted him, that would have solved everything, but mobile phones and the Internet were still in the future.

She is in a rut. That's the problem. These sandwiches are a symbol of a life that's going nowhere.

Teenagers!" said Hank. "All the parenting articles say, Talk to them, listen to them! But how can you when they seem to find it physically painful to even look at you?

Now she understood. She could happily murder someone today! In fact, she felt like there should be some sort of recognition for her remarkable strength of character that she didn't.

Oh, come on now," she said mildly, as a car suddenly pulled into the lane in front of her. She lifted her hand to toot the horn and then didn't bother. Note how I didn't scream and yell like a mad person, she thought for the benefit of that afternoon's psychotic truck driver, just in case he happened to have stopped by to read her mind.

He sounded so certain. Whenever they had an argument about a point of fact, he was always so utterly confident that he had it right and she had it wrong. He never even entertained the possibility that he might be mistaken. It drove her bananas. She struggled with an irresistible urge to slap him across the face. This

there was something in your children that could bring out the child in yourself. Nothing and nobody could aggravate you the way your child could aggravate you.

You're having one of those days of accumulating misery when you argue violently

This type of thing was always happening to John-Paul. Last time he went overseas he'd left his laptop in a cab. The man lost things constantly. Wallets, phones, keys, his wedding ring. His possessions just slid right off him.

Now, for one day every month, she had to fake everything: her basic humanity, her love for her children, her love for Ed. She'd once been appalled to hear of women claiming PMS as a defense for murder. Now she understood. She could happily murder someone today!

And yet here she was. There was nothing else to do, nowhere else to turn. "Goddamn it," she said, and turned

Apparently, the moment your ovaries noticed you were worried about becoming pregnant, they refused to cooperate. Oh well, if you're going to get all huffy about it, we'll just close down.

It could have been possible to put a little more fuck you into his tone, but some of it might've slopped out the sides.

Some days, a killing spree seems like a good idea.

Did she not get it? He'd done everything but hit her on the head and drag her into a cave.

She had done all she could. It didn't feel like enough. Nothing, in fact, ever did.

I'm done with the seesaw, the hot and cold, the guys who don't know or can't tell you what they want. I'm done with kissing that melts your bones followed by ten days of silence followed by a fucking pat on the arm at the T stop.

Soon Paula would begin complaining that he didn't understand her, didn't appreciate her, didn't love her enough, when in fact he loved her so much his heart often felt shredded by it. But people always wanted words for all that roiled inside you.

So much of this trip had been spent gazing at spectacular sights, which always filled me, as this one did now, with agonizing frustration. Why couldn't I simply accept and enjoy beauty? What was it that stirred up this terrible discomfort? ...We agreed it was the impermanence, the inability to possess, the reminder of death.

It's a sense of despair about writing itself, a sort of throwing up of hands, as if to say I'll put this down on the page but it's not what I really mean because what I really mean cannot be put into words.

She wondered how other people adjusted to vacations. It was such an unpleasant feeling, like gunning a car in neutral.

For so long I'd felt that what I'd been trained to do in academic writing was to press my nose to the ground, and here was Nell Stone with her head raised and swiveling in all directions. It was exhilarating and infuriating