oh my god it just struck me: i'm never gonna swagger onstage, cool as fuck, stella in my left hand, the inevitable sunglasses, the charisma, the sex, blissfully ignorant, proud, arrogant, loutish, brash, rash, baiting a ten thousand crowd, fucking defiant and not just faking it, i'm never gonna be liam gallagher, how fucking tragic...my crowd consists of a vicious russian cow killer, a retarded flemish cook, a pedantic muslim fundamentalist, a cocky editor i've never met before and a sweet doe-eyed junkie/soul mate whom i'll never meet again, how fucking tragic...

i would rather not go back to the loony bin, i'm not going to spend my whole life in limbo, no, no, no; i loved the funny pills and the sleazy nurses and concocting all those stories of sexual abuse and rape, god i enjoyed that, and so did they, the hungry eager therapists practically driveling on their desk, give me more, tell me about that first night your father came to visit you, did you go down on him? did you swallow? did he penetrate you? are you hard yet, mr shrink? it was alright for a while but soon i wanted more, so i put off my straightjacket and moved in with this alcoholic ex-boxer, patrick, who ranted tirelessly about past victories and all his childhood memories that were so long gone that they seemed to belong to someone else, of course this was doomed to fail, and we never even tried, we only clinged to each other for a little while, i ran away, he drank himself into a coma and that was that and here i am, pissed but not defeated, angry but not sad.

am i humbled by life's ordeals? am i fuck? this deluded tosser switches from despair(and when i say despair, i mean humping seventy year old relatives and flashing my tits to german tourists) to joy(and when i say joy, i mean singing "live forever" on my bike at five am watching the sun come up, embracing the new day and all that hippie shit),tick-tack, tick-tack, liam gallagher-thom yorke,razorblade-parachute,eating-sleeping,waiting-running; sometimes i hit myself so badly that i break my nose, i'm beginning to look more and more like patrick,how fucking ironic...

nostalgia, booze and britpop; that sums up my life quite accurately, no really, the less there is to be nostalgic about, the more i drink, the more nostalgic i get and the booze does not dull my senses, it sharpens them and i'm singing "wonderwall" and i feel so fucking sexy and free, and i wink at my own reflection and i actually feel forgiveness, even love for this vile creature with her crooked nose, her greasy hair, her pale complexion, her skinny limbs, all of her breathing out hopelessness, defeat, apathy, boredom, sadness, ugly, ugly, die bitch, die!

my sweet, loveable, considerate junkie scum friend maff was supposed to kill me before killing himself, he was to slit my wrists, but the fucking traitor, the selfish cunt hung himself, leaving me intact, leaving me fucking useless...and i miss him, i miss throwing verbal abuse at him(only ever playing), i miss kissing his brows (corny fuck!!), i miss hearing him calling my name (only the first letter really):"D", when he said it it sounded like a full sentence, like a promise, like a pact, a suicide pact.

morrissey is watching me as i'm getting arsefucked by an old fat sleazy pub owner, looking at me with scorn and contempt, but when i study his face, as i try not to come, i notice a weak smile, weak but forgiving, and his eyes, they're not harsh, i was wrong, they radiate sympathy and comfort, and between the repulsive sighing and moaning of the aroused pig, i can hear morrissey whispering: "i know it's gonna happen someday", but then i come and morrissey's just a picture on my wall.