Quotes About Frustration

When the people whose claims we are considering are told to apply themselves to these tasks they become irritated and feel almost insulted. They

We have scarcely gotten home ... when our children's sneezes greet us, skinned knees bleed after waiting all day to do so. There is the bellyache and the burned-out basement bulb, the stalled car and the incontinent cat. The windows frost, the toilets sweat, the body of our spouse is one cold shoulder and the darkness of our bedroom is soon full of the fallen shadows of our failures.

My boredom threshold is low at the best of times but I have spent more time being slowly and excruciatingly bored by children than any other section of the human race.

He hated not being heard, having to shout at the insides of himself, having to live in his dreams the way he lived in one of his rented rooms, being opposed, denied, neglected, refused. Kicked out.

Family is, after all—however irritating—family.

To the teacher weighed down with paperwork, I say: you've been messed around too often. You came into teaching to spend your time teaching children not filling in forms.

Politics makes me sick.

I'll be damned if I am not getting tired of this. It seems to be the profession of a President simply to hear other people talk.

Our ideas must agree with realities, be such realities concrete or abstract, be they facts or be they principles, under penalty of endless inconsistency and frustration.

I'm tired of feeling mad. I'm tired of feeling sad. . . I just want things to be okay again.

He looked at his hands. Big hands. How useless a man's hands were, he thought, when it came to fixing the important things."

Alex and Laurel have three young kids, too, aged seven, nine, and eleven. I find these spoiled children more insufferable every time I see them. At this rate, I expect that very soon my nieces and nephews will be suitable only to be sewn up in a burlap bag with a wolverine and tossed into the nearest river.)

I did not usually feel that sort of passion about any case, but I disliked this murderer already. For murdering, yes, but also for fucking with us. For refusing to submit.

The iPod was a leak. It was a danger. I brought it down to the basement and laid it on my little worktable, glass side up, and I got a hammer and smashed it.

You don't want to hear what I have to say. You only want me to say what you want to hear. But trust me when I tell you that you won't ever get all you want. You'll just grow frustrated and bitter, and you'll end up doing things that will kill the best part of you.

He rages because the people don't deserve their country and proved it by electing a racist orange glob of hair coughed up by the Russian cat.

Just then things weren't going so well in my life. My business was precariously perched on the brink of bankruptcy, my anemic love life was the stuff of a Sartre treatise – Being with Nothingness – my car could use a tune-up, my apartment could use a scrubbing, my body could use some exercise, though who would give it that was a mystery to me. I was too young to feel old, and yet there it was, the despair of middle age, hanging around my neck like a noose.

Whatever they had together, it was collapsing under its own weight. He could see the signs. Her dissatisfaction was showing, like a slip beneath the hem of a crisply pleated skirt, and it ruined the whole effect.

Which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his desire? or, having it, is satisfied?

His face looked like an argument you couldn't win.

She was the perfect end to a crappy day, brusque, supercilious and precisely as pleasant as a boil on the sphincter.

It's not always been a happy marriage. I guess I wanted a quick fix.

I thought, too, of Thomas Merton's description of hell, where 'no one has anything in common with anybody else except the fact that they all hate one another and cannot get away from one another and themselves.

The best intentions frequently met their match around me.