December 05, 2002 | 9:59 AM

Having been sick and hanging around my apartment alone waiting for lab results, which may or may not tell me I am dying has been a terribly depressing ordeal.

A line from (of all things) Bridgett Jones�s Diary keeps running through my head:

And someday I�ll die fat and alone, having been eaten by wild dogs.

The idea that it could possibly all come down to this, that my whole life could just be snuffed out at the age of 25 when I haven�t even gotten close to doing anything interesting, feels so utterly meaningless.

And it hit me that even if I�m OK right now, someday in the not so far distant future (20, 30, 40, 50 years), I will be food for daffodils or ashes in a tasteful urn.

OK, I have done some interesting things. But I haven�t completed anything interesting. I have started stuff and really finished nothing. I have not worked up to my potential in any way shape or form.

I am angry at myself for having been suicidal and depressed in the past and wasting precious time. And I�m mad that I waited so fucking long to get this checked out. I got my first bloody nose in September and just hoped it would go away. Now I am getting three times a week�usually I wake up to them.

My great aunt died of leukemia and it was quick. From the time she got diagnosed until she was laid in the coffin was six weeks. She had a very aggressive form of the disease.

There�s no use worrying about it until I know what�s up. It could be a lot of things, many of which aren�t so terrible.

It�s hard not to freak out though.