Morrissey is a boy with a thorn in his side because he never had anyone ever and heaven knows he's miserable now.

I was initially very prejudiced against Morrissey: his wussy self-pity, his caterwauling vocals, his sycophantic fans and the fact that my dad used to look exactly like him in the 80's just made him rather repulsive to me. And yet I wondered. The man is a lot like Jesus you see, you don't have to believe in him but to dismiss him altogether seems a bit short sighted.

So I started listening to the Smiths. At first I wanted to bitch-slap Morrissey every two minutes, but slowly my tolerance for the band grew. I told myself it was just Johnny Marr's guitar I liked. Then the horrible truth set in:

There's a club if you'd like to go, you could meet somebody who really loves you. So you go on your own, and you stand on your own, and you go home and you cry and you want to die. Fuck! I can actually relate to this!

Then I naturally tried to kill myself. When it didn't work out, I drew this. My case isn't completely hopeless as you can see, I'm not fangirlish enough to remember what the hell a Gladiola looks like.