Or death.

It's a laugh riot to contemplate your own demise. Not that it takes a will for me to do it. As you know, my mother taught me that I could perish at any moment, especially if I stand near a toaster during a thunderstorm. But I never had to make so many decisions, all of which involve things that take place after I'm dead. You'd think that at some point, I'd get to stop worrying, but no. Evidently, death isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'll bet my skin won't even clear up.

But I look on the bright side. If I had died when I was a struggling writer, I'd have nothing to leave but three maxed-out credit cards and a very hungry dog.

Bottom line, now I have to decide who gets the do-re-mi when I'm gone, which is easy. I have only my daughter, and she's cashing in. I told her today, and already she's looking at me funny. I'm locking up the steak knives.

I'm telling you now, if something happens to me, we all know who did it. She's smart enough to make it look like an accident, so don't believe a word. She went to Harvard, remember?

But who inherits is only one of the decisions I have to make. A harder question is raised by the living will, as opposed to the dying will, I guess. You know what a living will is: It's a piece of paper that says what you want to happen if you're completely incapacitated, like me after a head injury or two cosmopolitans. The main question is, do I want the plug pulled? I say no.

"You're kidding, right?" my lawyer asks, over the phone.

"No. In fact, I want that plug duct-taped into the socket, so it doesn't get kicked out by accident on purpose. And while you're at it, get me an extension cord, a surge protector, and a generator, right by my bed. Just in case. And padlock it. Did I mention that my kid went to Harvard?"

"You mean that you want your daughter to visit you for years and years, even though you're in a coma?"

"Yes. Years and years and years, even though I'm in a coma. You never know. I'm a light sleeper."

The lawyer doesn't laugh. "But that's such a burden on her."

"Aw, poor wittle thing. Where was she when I was in labor? Oh, that's right. Being born."

The lawyer gives up and we move on to the hardest decision of all:

The Anatomical Gift.

I see that phrase in the will and immediately I'm thinking, George Clooney. I'll bet he has an Anatomical Gift. And if he gave it to me, I'd die and go to heaven.

But the lawyer explains that the Anatomical Gift refers to my anatomy, which I may decide to give away after I'm dead. Plus, I have to specify any "organs or body parts."

Now I have a question for all of you:

Who wants my cellulite?

This is grade-A quality cellulite, and you can't beat the price. Send me an e-mail, write me an essay, 50 words or less.

Anybody else want my nose?

It's big. Really big. My mother says I get more oxygen than anybody else in the room.

At least I did, when I was breathing.

So let me know. Yours for the asking.

But the lawyer gets me back to business. The last question is, do I want to be an organ donor "for transplantation or for medical research?"

This gives me pause. "Yes and no."

"What?"

"Yes to the organ-transplant thing. But no way am I giving my body for research."

"Why not?"

"I don't want anybody pointing and laughing at my cellulite, in case nobody writes a good enough essay."

Then I get a load of the final provision in the draft will: "Treatment which prolongs my dying may be temporarily continued or modified so as to preserve and protect for transplant the useful portions of my body."

What? I'm not signing that. I begin to wonder whose side my lawyer is on.

I've found all of my body portions to be useful, if you don't count a pesky hangnail. And no way am I agreeing to a late check-out so I can harvest myself. If they want my kidneys, they can just make it snappy.

And take it from me, my ovaries rock. Step lively.