don't come to the house tonight because you'll slip on the trail of my bespattered remains
2003-08-21 || 5:52 p.m.

A long time ago, when other teenagers were writing to Duran Duran and Wham, I wrote to Morrissey.

Once he signed my arm in red felt tip. I didn't wash it for a week.

So you see how I never fitted in.

My mum would tell me to 'turn that bloody noise off' but my dad would sit in his room in the dark on his leather chair and play the smiths late into the night.

And a few months later I got a strange plastic envelope in the post.

The charred remains of my letter to Morrissey.

Someone torched the post box.

And today, you know, I'm sure Morrissey is sending me subliminal messages. Not through his words but through those haunting melodies. He's saying that if I do take that blade and cut straight down those blue lines so handily drawn out in advance, I will be in a better place.

I have to be.