If you are reading this message then it means that I am already dead.

I’ve my suspicions who who might have done me in, but this is neither the time nor place to get into that.

I’ll be dead for a couple of days, it looks like, and the afterlife apparently looks like Seattle where I’m attending the Emerald City Comicon and Discount Shoe Expo.  It should be a fine time on my end as I love any opportunity to hang around in Seattle, living in L.A like I do.  Having two shit-covered gorillas drag me out of bed and punch me repeatedly against an elephant’s ass until I fold and get mashed all the way up and in would be a damn fine getaway from L.A, but Seattle’s all the joy of that encounter without the awful stuff.

If you’ve been into these daily entries, re-energizing your spirits basking in the healing light of incontestable truth, then you’ll no doubt be panicking at this point, asking yourself how you will survive this stretch of darkness while I take my light to the Pacific Northwest, possibly shitting your pants with dread at the very thought.  Well, I’m looking out for you guys.  That’s right, I didn’t forget that little favor you did for me that crazy night last summer when my night of fun turned into a night of needing someone to dispose of yet another headless supermodel’s leggy corpse.  You remember!

“Jhonen, again?  Again?  When will your godless lust for supermodel heads be sated?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re gonna tell me that that supermodel magically appeared in your hotel room, and ate her own head off.”

“I’m just fucking with ya, man.  Yeah, I ate it.  Proud of it.  Take care of it would ya?  I promise to pay you back some day by writing a few blog posts ahead of time to cover a stretch where it’ll be hard for me to write much because of Seattle or something. ”

“Mister, you got yourself a DEAL.”

And that’s when we chest bumped , caved in each others’ scrawny ribcages and spent that wild month in the hospital, or as I dubbed, because of all cute nurses with heads, the “HOTspital”.  PAZOW!

So that time has come, and though these posts will be a lot shorter than the usual ones, they’ll be no less amazing or infuriating.  This will come as good news even to those out there who read these things, get angry about how long they are and then write to tell me that they’re too long and how annoying it is to try and make it through them.  These can be pretty rough reads, I admit, and my heart goes out to those who are driven to ranting and raving about how terrible they are but who suffer from being incapable of simply avoiding what upsets them so.

I, too, suffer from a similar affliction, as my close friends can attest to.  I’m particularly sensitive to startling horses from behind and getting kicked in the scrotum, howling in white hot agony at my exploded genitals, and yet I can NOT get enough of prancing around like an idiot behind every horse I see.  It’s just one of those things that make me ME, I guess, that and the constant puddle of blood and semen I’m standing in.

But enough flirting.  Here is today’s INVAAAAADING ZIMMMMMM-

FACT:

Did you know I spend a good seven hours of my day screaming and begging God for someone to love and understand me?  That’s not today’s fact, but I just thought you’d find that neat.

No, today’s short but sweet ZIM FACT concerns one of the most asked questions I get about the show:

Can ZIM love?

Probably not.

TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR ANOTHER AMAAAAAAZING ZIM FACT!

P.S:  I can love.  Why, God?  Why give me feelings when nobody wants to touch me?  I killed for you.  I KILLED IN YOUR NAME.  You spoke to me through every dog I’ve ever met and I have done thy bidding!  I have done thy PUDDING, that one time you barked at me because it had been “forever” since you had had just a good, simple bowl of pudding, and I was all “But we’re out of pudding, Lord.  Actually, I haven’t bought pudding ever and really haven’t eaten it since I was a kid.”, and oh how you stormed and sniffed in your holy rage.

Have I not pleased thee?  I do everything thou hast or hath or asked of me, and still that goddamn whore clawed at my face when I wanted to just suck on her eyeball!  WHAT FOR ME?  WHAT DO I GET FOR ALL OF MY SERVICE TO YOU?

What do you mean “what am I saying?”  I’m speaking in tongues.  You should understand that, being God that you are.  I am channeling the holy voices to express my woe and anger.  Well I can’t help it if it just sounds like “farty noises” to you.  I am doing the best I can, God, but if me pouring out contents of my soul, laying it bare for you to finally see that I suffer so just looks to you like me holding my palms to my mouth and making farty noises as I march around the kitchen like John Cleese, then just forget it.

We’re through.  You have forsaken me, and so I renounce you and your lies.  You’re just a devil in cleaner rags, you son of a bitch!

I guess I’m a dracula an’ shit now, since that’s what happens when you renounce YOU, so I hope you’re happy.  Yeah, I hope you feel reeeeal good about that.

Where’s my Flapjack backpack?  What do you mean “why?”  Why is because I’m going out into the night to feed my new thirst for blood, you asshole, and I want my backpack – it’s got a flashlight and a change of shoes.  Look, I’m scared of the dark and my feet get hot if I wear the same pair too long, so I switch off every half hour, so fucking what?

You know what?  I don’t even know why I’m still here.  I don’t have to put up with your shit any more now that I’m on the other team.  That’s right, I’m one of the minions of darkness now, thanks to you , and I’m gonna go chew the shit outta someone’s neck since I don’t seem to have my fangs yet.

That’s right.  You treated the wrong bitch like a bitch, and now it’s YOU who’ll be alone.

Are you on the phone?  Oh, my god, have you been on the phone this whole time?  Who are is it?  Who’re you talking to?  Hello?  Fuck it.  You know what, I don’t care, I’m outta here.

Yeah, I’m still here, so?  I’m just looking for a song on my iPod before I walk out into the night forever, away from this caste of deceit. STUDIO APARTMENT of deceit.  Whatever.  Geezus Christ, am I not gonna miss how pedantic you get.

The hitchhiking music from the Incredible Hulk.  I don’t care if you think that’s funny.  It MEANS something to me, okay?  IT MEANS SADNESS, alright?  It means sadness to me, and denim.

Okay, it’s playing now, and I can’t hear what you’re saying, so if you’re apologizing and begging me to come back well then tough shit.

You messed up big this time.

–ZIM FACTS. Here’s why—