Here are just a handful of Morrisey's sentiments, in the first person:
I did a bunch of bad things, but I did them because I was driven by my emotions. (I'm sorry: I'm just that kind of person.)
I took a job and I hate it because the people I work for don't give a hoot about my life, whether I fail or succeed in my hopes and dreams. If one day I didn't turn up, there would be another in my place. I'm disposable.
The best conversations I've ever had were with my friends in my teens when we were all sitting around getting drunk. Nothing compares.
I'm the same person at sixteen as I am now.
I never get what I really want.
Nabokov said that several artists are typically—stereotypically—tortured because the value the art in their heads more than they art they have brought or could bring into the world. If only to avoid psychopathology, the artist ought to disabuse himself of the illusion that the real art is what exists in his noggin. Artists or no, the things in our head are cut off from the world, but the things brought into the world are there for all to see.
Apropos our hero Morrisey, I bet he believes he's only done a fraction of the real art in his noggin. Now, all right, a person can be proud of his potential. But best to side with our friend Nabokov and accept that real art is art that's on paper or pressed onto vinyl or... You get the picture.
All said, I'm glad Louder than Bombs got pressed onto vinyl in 1987 and has since been able for all the world to partake of.
Morrisey, you say you seem a little strange because that's what you are. As Barry White sang, I love you just the way you are.