This is my last column. Please pardon me while I break into a profuse sweat, stagger from my computer, swig a little Maalox. Because I don't really want to write those words.

MY 6-YEAR-OLD sat at the kitchen table reading a comic book. Maybe not reading it, exactly, but looking at the pictures of trucks slamming on the brakes with a SCREECH! And Marines hitting the deck when they hear a CRASH! I wasn't too surprised. My little boy is attracted to all things comic book - even when the comic book isn't aimed at him.

WE'RE NOT allowed to talk about it. Even though Kelsey knows that Brad and I are haunting the mailbox wishing that the rest of her college acceptances and rejections would just show up, we're not allowed to say so. We're not allowed to mention "summer" or "college" or "decide" without a worried little wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows.

Lie still, I told myself. Breathe in. Breathe out. Maybe Brad will think you're asleep and then you can get up and get online. IT WASN'T PORN. It wasn't illicit conversations with my no-tell lover. I was simply burning to get back online to look at houses on Realtor.com.

ONCE UPON a time when my parents traveled to Venice, Italy, they passed under the Bridge of Sighs in a gondola. My father bent to kiss my mother, assured by local legend that they would be blessed with eternal love. "Heaven," my mother sighed. When my brother and his bride passed under the same bridge on their honeymoon, it did not elicit the same reaction.

Dear Mrs. Eckhart, I am 9 years old. I have two sisters and a baby brother. My Dad is a Soldier with the Army National Guard who is deployed to Iraq and will be home in the next few weeks. My Dad will get a parade for coming home, could you please write my mom Mrs. William Pulcastro a thank- you note? Sincerely, Kathryn Pulcastro Wappingers Falls, New York  

I called my friends to tell them it looks as if the writers strike has come to an end. Let's have a party!

I AM GLAD it is not my job to teach leadership and career planning to a bunch of eighth-graders.

A COUPLE OF WEEKS ago I wrote a column about the apparent contempt shown in a recent batch of commercials. I pointed out that the appearance of contempt was a bad sign for a marriage and that we had to work against letting it creep into our real relationships.

I have an unnamed room at the front of my house. Poor little room. I'm afraid it isn't very happy here. While all the other rooms have a purpose, this one is, I fear, absolutely useless. It is too small to hold a couch. It doesn't boast a phone jack or a cable mount or a faucet. What exactly is this room's purpose?