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Annoyed Quotes

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Annoyed Quotes

“It is a strange thing that the human species can only go three days without water and three weeks without food, before the body dies. Yet, so many people can go years hanging onto pain and feeling emotionally dead inside. I suppose if it was the other way around more people would go to school to be morticians because of the booming business, or pastors would have to hand out Valium with the sacrament, just to keep the census high.”

“...the presence of others has become even more intolerable to me, their conversation most of all. Oh, how it all annoys and exasperates me: their attitudes, their manners, their whole way of being! The people of my world, all my unhappy peers, have come to irritate, oppress and sadden me with their noisy and empty chatter, their monstrous and boundless vanity, their even more monstrous egotism, their club gossip... the endless repetition of opinions already formed and judgments already made; the automatic vomiting forth of articles read in those morning papers which are the recognised outlet of the hopeless wilderness of their ideas; the eternal daily meal of overfamiliar cliches concerning racing stables and the stalls of fillies of the human variety... the hutches of the 'petites femmes' - another worn out phrase in the dirty usury of shapeless expression! Oh my contemporaries, my dear contemporaries... Their idiotic self-satisfaction; their fat and full-blown self-sufficiency: the stupid display of their good fortune; the clink of fifty- and a hundred-franc coins forever sounding out their financial prowess, according their own reckoning; their hen-like clucking and their pig-like grunting, as they pronounce the names of certain women; the obesity of their minds, the obscenity of their eyes, and the toneless-ness of their laughter! They are, in truth, handsome puppets of amour, with all the exhausted despondency of their gestures and the slackness of their chic... Chic! A hideous word, which fits their manner like a new glove: as dejected as undertakers' mutes, as full-blown as Falstaff... Oh my contemporaries: the ceusses of my circle, to put it in their own ignoble argot. They have all welcomed the moneylenders into their homes, and have been recruited as their clients, and they have likewise played host to the fat journalists who milk their conversations for the society columns. How I hate them; how I execrate them; how I would love to devour them liver and lights - and how well I understand the Anarchists and their bombs!”

“Why is it that people are always trying to kill you?' His voice was low, on the edge of something deadly. 'You need to be more careful.' 'How is this my fault?' 'You have no sense of self-preservation.' Archer took another angry step. 'If someone labelled a bottle poison, you would drink it. You take warnings as invitations. You can seem to stay away from all the things that will hurt you.' Like me.”

“Then he said quietly, 'You've lost weight.' 'You're prone to digging through my head whenever you please,' I said, stabbing a piece of melon with my fork. 'I don't see why you're surprised by it.' His gaze didn't lighten, though that smile again played about his sensuous mouth, no doubt his favourite mask. 'Only occasionally will I do that. And I can't help it if you send things down the bond.' ... I scowled, clenching my fork harder. 'And how often do you just rifle through my mind when my shields are down?' All amusement faded from his face. 'When I can't tell if your nightmares are real threats or imagined. When you're about to be married and you silently beg anyone to help you. Only when you drop your mental shields and unknowingly blast those things down the bridge. And to answer your question before you ask, yes. Even with your shields up, I could get through them if I wished. You could train, though- learn how to shield against someone like me, even with the bond bridging our minds and my own abilities.”

“Why are we sneaking out in the night?” Jack repeated. “I already explained,” Sam snapped. “If you don’t listen—” Taylor jumped in to say, “Because otherwise Astrid would find some way to stop him.” She mimicked Astrid’s voice, injecting it with steel and a tense, condescending tone. “Sam. I am the smartest, hottest girl in the world. So do what I tell you. Good boy. Down, boy. Down!” Sam remained silent, walking steadily just a few feet ahead. Taylor continued, “Oh, Sam, if only you could be as smart plus as totally goody-goody as I am. If only you could realize that you will never be good enough to have me, me, wonderful me, Astrid the Blond Genius.” “Sam, can I shoot her now?” Dekka asked. “Or is it too soon?” “Wait until we’re over the ridge,” Sam said. “It’ll muffle the sound.” “Sorry, Dekka,” Taylor said. “I know you don’t like talking about boy-girl things.” “Taylor,” Sam warned. “Yes, Sam?” “You might want to think about how hard it would be to walk if someone were to turn off gravity under your feet every now and then.” “I wonder who would do that?” Dekka said. Suddenly Taylor fell flat on her face. “You tripped me!” Taylor said, more shocked than angry. “Me?” Dekka spread her hands in a completely unconvincing gesture of innocence. “Hey, I’m all the way over here.” “I’m just saying: you can see where that could make a long walk just a lot longer,” Sam said. “You guys are so not fun,” Taylor grumped. She bounced instantaneously to just behind Sam. She grabbed his butt, he yelled, “Hey!” and she bounced away innocently. “To answer your question, Jack,” Sam said, “we are sneaking out at night so that everyone doesn’t know we’re gone and why. They’ll figure it out soon enough, but Edilio will have to have more of his guys on the streets if I’m not there playing the big, bad wolf. More stress for everyone.” “Oh,” Jack said. “The big, bad wolf,” Taylor said. She laughed. “So, when you play that fantasy in your head is Astrid Little Red Riding Hood or one of the Three Little Pigs?” “Dekka,” Sam said. “Hah! Too slow!”

“You still out there, Princess?' My lips parted as my eyes widened at the sound of his voice. Hawke. It was Hawke. In that room. I couldn't believe it. 'Or have you fallen to your death?' he continued. I briefly debated the merits of jumping. 'I really hope that's not the case since I'm pretty positive that would reflect poorly on me since I assumed you were in you room.' A pause. 'Behaving. And not on a ledge, several dozen feet in the air, for reasons I can't even begin to fathom but am dying to learn.”

“Apologies for any insult this causes,' she said without peering out from around her easel, 'but I am not in the market for a husband, my lord. Please just go.' A beat of silence passed. With any luck, Vexley would be insulted by the bite in her tone and would turn right back around and leave for some faraway city at the edge of the world. 'Well, that's quite a relief considering I'm in want of a painting, not a wife.”

“...and it just pisses me off more. Like yeah, I cry when I watch those sad puppy videos too, but Gabriel's not actually a puppy abandoned by his owner. He's an upper middle-class Vermont kid who's parents business beats ours like ten months out of twelve. It's not my fault that emotionally, his about as stable as a cheap styrofoam cup.”

“I'm not a dog to be summoned,' I said by way of greeting. Slowly, Rhys looked over his shoulder. Those violet eyes were vibrant in the light, and I curled my fingers into fists as they swept from my head to my toes and back up again. He frowned at whatever he found lacking. 'I didn't want you to get lost,' he said blandly.”

“This is highly inappropriate,' I muttered. His answering chuckle stroked my nerves in all the wrong- and right- ways. 'More inappropriate than you masquerading as a wholly different kind of maid at the Red Pearl?' My jaw snapped shut so quickly and tightly, I was surprised I didn't crack a molar. 'Or more inappropriate than the night of the Rite, when you let me-' 'Shut up,' I hissed. 'I'm not done yet,' he said, his chest pressing against my back. 'What about sneaking off to fight the Craven on the Rise? Or that diary-?' 'I get your point, Hawke. Can you stop talking now?' 'You're the one who started this.' 'Actually, no, I did not.' 'What?' A low laugh left him. 'You said, and I quote, "this is wildly, grossly, irrefutably...' 'Did you just learn what an adverb is today? Because that is not what I said.' Hawke sighed. 'Sorry.' He didn't sound sorry about it at all.”

“A heartbeat later, Hawke stuck his head out and looked up at me. The soft glow of the lamp glanced off his cheekbone as he raised a brow. 'Hi?' I squeaked. He stared at me for a moment. 'Get inside.' I didn't move. With a sigh so heavy it should've rattled the walls, he extended his hand toward me. 'Now.' 'You could say please,' I muttered. His eyes narrowed. 'There are a whole lot of things I could say to you that you should be grateful I'm keeping to myself.' 'Whatever,' I grumbled. 'Move back.' He waited, but when I didn't take his hand, he disappeared back into the room, grousing under his breath. 'If you fall, you're going to be in so much trouble.' 'If I fall, I'll be dead, so I'm not quite sure how I'd also be in trouble.' 'Poppy,' he snapped, and I couldn't help it. I grinned.”

“Give me back the journal.' 'But, of course.' He offered it and I snatched it out of his hand quickly, holding it to my chest. 'All you had to do was ask.' 'What?' My mouth dropped open. 'I have been asking.' 'Sorry.' He didn't sound sorry at all. 'I have selective hearing.' 'You are... You are the worst.' 'You got your words wrong.' Striding past me, he patted the top of my head. I lashed out, narrowly missing him. 'You meant, I'm the best.' 'I got my words right.' 'Come. I need to get you back before something other than your own foolishness puts you at risk.' He stopped by the door. 'And don't forget your book. I expect a summary of each chapter tomorrow.”

“I'm sure it was one of the most important things to have happened to you in a long time.' My eyes narrowed. 'You have an over-inflated sense of involvement in my life if you really think that.' 'I think I have a good grasp on just how much of a role I play in your life.' 'Doubtful,' I parroted back. 'I do wonder if you actually believe half the lies you tell.' Tawny's gaze snapped back and forth between us. 'I am not lying, thank you very much.' He smiled, showing off the dimple in his right cheek. 'Whatever you need to tell yourself, Princess.' 'Don't call me that!' I stomped my foot. Hawke lifted an eyebrow. 'Did that make you feel good?' 'Yes! Because the only other option is to kick you.' 'So violent,' he chuckled.”

“Jen, get a clue and read Wadim's shirt." Jacque told her dryly. Jen looked over at Wadim who, oh so helpfully, pulled his shirt out so that she could read it. In black bold letters it said, "No really, I'm a werewolf and you're a human, which essentially translates into a steak with legs." "Are you implying that Wadmin's going to eat me, cause I don't know how Dec would feel about that.”

“It's an odd thing but when you tell someone the true facts of a mythical tale they are indignant not with the teller but with you. They don't want to have their ideas upset. It rouses some vague uneasiness in them, I think, and they resent it. So they reject it and refuse to think about it. If they were merely indifferent it would be natural and understandable. But it is much stronger than that, much more positive. They are annoyed. Very odd, isn't it.”

“If my wife is cooking a meal at home, which is not often, thankfully, but you know, she's doing (oh, she's good at some things) but if she's cooking, you know, she's dealing with people on the phone, she's talking to the kids, she's painting the ceiling, she's doing open-heart surgery over here; if I'm cooking, the door is shut, the kids are out, the phone's on the hook, if she comes in I get annoyed, I say "Terry, please, I'm trying to fry an egg in here, give me a break.".”

“I think people who are unhappy are always proud of being so, and therefore do not like to be told that there is nothing grand about their unhappiness. A man who is melancholy because lack of exercise has upset his liver always believes that it is the loss of God, or the menace of Bolshevism, or some such dignified cause that makes him sad. When you tell people that happiness is a simple matter, they get annoyed with you.”

“I never noticed competing with other generations. There's competition within your own generation, but that competition is good. Maybe you're annoyed that somebody's getting more money than you are, but what's really annoying is if someone's painting a better painting than you're making. So it's something to think about and work toward and stay focused on.”