Quotes About Frustration

But I seemed unable to do anything that pleased anyone and that included me, my own self, though at that time I did not know that myself constituted such a thing as existence

Damned Weyland-Yutani piece of crap," she said.

Talking to that fool is like trying to put socks on an octopus!

Do you really think you are going to change anyone's mind? I always wonder, who are these people who spend all day on Internet message boards and comments sections getting really angry and trying to prove that their opinion is THE opinion that everyone should have.

That irked the crap out of him, but maybe that's just what happens when you get old. Everything's so damned irksome.

My friend,' he said, 'no one is more ired of religion than a priest.

Lately," said Hubbard, "I have been considering language to be the enemy.

He, who endlessly combated his family's reliance on 'Mexican time.' They drove him crazy. If a dinner gathering was announced for six o'clock, he could be sure it wouldn't start until nine. They'd walk in as if they were early. Or worse, they'd say 'What?' as if he were the one with a problem. You know you're Mexican when lunch doesn't show up till ten at night.

Life was generous: it gave a man a thousand things to be pissed off about.

Éramos tão vorazes, no começo, que qualquer coisa menos que o mundo equivaleria a um coito interrompido.

He drives recklessly or speeds up when he's angry. -He punches walls or kicks doors. -He throws things around, even if they don't hit you.

Most people have an impulse to dump bad feelings on some undeserving person, as a way to relieve—temporarily—sadness or frustration. (..) The abusive man (..) considers himself entitled to use his partner as a kind of human garbage dump where he can litter the ordinary pains and frustrations that life brings us. She is always an available target.

I personally bought three liters of kerosene two days ago. And now there's just a drop left on the bottom, not enough to stick up a dog's ass. You just can't leave anything in the kitchen anymore.

I attempt all day, at work, not to think about what lies ahead, but this costs me so much effort that there is nothing left for my work. I handle telephone calls so badly that after a while the switchboard operator refuses to connect me. So I had better say to myself, Go ahead and polish the silverware beautifully, then lay it out ready on the sideboard and be done with it. Because I polish it in my mind all day long—this is what torments me (and doesn't clean the silver).

In those days, I wanted to cry, I wanted to shout, I wanted to wring my hands and complain, and I did try to complain to some people, though I could never cry or complain as much as I wanted to. Some people listened and tried to be helpful, but they could never listen long enough; the conversation always had to come to an end.

The old vacuum cleaner keeps dying on her over and over until at last the cleaning woman scares it by yelling: "Motherfucker!

I am hell with a knife and there is nothing I can really do about it but try and keep my mouth shut and try not to let it show.

When things haven't gone well for you, call in a secretary or a staff man and chew him out. You will sleep better and they will appreciate the attention.

I wanted to stand up and shout that this was unfair, but loud voices were not permitted in the library.

Then there are the other days, when nothing is enough. The poem grins. It grins because it knows it is a terrible poem. It grins in embarrassment. It grins in pity. It grins in superiority. I may be a terrible poem, it grins, but at least I have one comfort. At least I'm not a terrible *poet*. At least I'm not the guy who sat in front of a typewriter for two hours coming up with the likes of *me*.

Not being able to sleep is terrible. You have the misery of having partied all night... without the satisfaction.

For any true stickler, you see, the sight of the plural word "Book's" with an apostrophe in it will trigger a ghastly private emotional process similar to the stages of bereavement, though greatly accelerated. First there is shock. Within seconds, shock gives way to disbelief, disbelief to pain, and pain to anger. Finally (and this is where the analogy breaks down), anger gives way to a righteous urge to perpetrate an act of criminal damage with the aid of a permanent marker.

Evaluation eliminates frustration. We should also evaluate unrealistic expectations. Unrealistic expectations become unmet expectations. And unmet expectations are like kindling wood-it only takes but a spark of frustration to set them ablaze and burn those involved.

And that's when I just want to lie down on the floor in a very dramatic way and loudly declare, "BUT I AM NOT JESUS!!" Ugh. However, as hard as this seems, I think it's harder to keep letting circumstances and complicated people kidnap my peace.