We’ve come to wish you an unhappy birthday, Morrissey. The Pope of Mope turns 57 today. A recent winner of Literary Review’s Bad Sex in Fiction award, potential candidate in London’s mayoral race, and master of the put-down, Moz’s grumpiness precedes him. And while one only needs to look to the brooding wit and bitter humor of his lyrics to bask in Morrissey’s gloom, the charming man never misses an opportunity to make a sharp-tongued observation about the miserableness of life and culture’s feel-bad moments. We’ve gathered some of Morrissey’s most morose quotes. Lest he worry that we got soft on him, tomorrow we’ll be sure to tell him that it’s not his birthday anymore. Did he really think we meant all those syrupy, sentimental things that we said?