IT'S a lucky man who can write his own eulogy. And this, dear reader, is mine.

As I write this, I am surrounded by my friends, my beloved, and various hangers-on whose names I can never quite recall. To you, I dedicate this humble piece of prose.

Yes, it's true.

I'm dying.

For those of you who stood by me, through dark of night, through bounteous sunshine, in good times and in bad, through laughter and through tears, through bitter acrimony and parsimonious intrepidity, I extend my most heartfelt gratitude. For those of you who lent me money, I promise I'll try to come up with it before I kick the big one.

For those of you who cursed me, who hated me, who never read my column: I hope you're proud of yourselves now, shagstains. I weep bitter tears of anguish.

It all started about a week ago. There I was in the doctor's office, looking to score some glaucoma remedy, when all of a sudden the M.D. gives me this funny look.

"Christ, Rutger," he says. "You don't look so good. You look really sick."

"Just give me what I came for, buddy," says I.

"No, really," he says. "If I've ever seen a case of terminal premis overextenditus, I'm looking at one now."

"No way," I say. "How long have I got?"

"Well, with extreme care, maybe a month. But if you keep up your present lifestyle--drinkin', cussin', sweet-talkin' the ladies, with nary a moment to sleep or think up new material--I'd give you maybe one more week."

"Yikes," I say. "If I've only got seven days left on the old ticker I'd better get hopping on the good times."

If I have any regrets, it is that I never set up that pharmaceuticals pipeline for underdeveloped children in rural Africa. Every day thousands go without shelter, clothing, food, or illegal drugs. Now that I am faced with my own mortality, I realize that to be human is the most precious gift that God has given us.

Perhaps it's not too late. Perhaps, with your help, we really can make a difference. If you would like to make my expiration a happy one, please rush via U.S. Post any donation of smokable or ingestible material you feel you can spare to Rutger Fury, c/o The Harvard Crimson, Deputy Editorial Chairman, 14 Plympton St., Cambridge, Massachusetts 02138.