Several weeks ago, I was informed that my autistic cousin had converted to Catholicism and would no longer be able to attend my wedding in June, due to the fact that my fianc�e, my son and I have been living in sin. My reaction surprised me. At first, I felt shame, then anger. And, of course, denial. Eventually, I was able to accept the varied beliefs of the human race, and admitted to myself that my way of life doesn’t have to be acceptable to others in order for it to be valid. It was an important life lesson and, though my heart remains a little broken, I feel I’ve grown.

This is nowhere fucking close to how heartbroken I am over the season finale of Fox’s “The O.C.” tonight at 8!

Now, I know we’ve been spoiled this year. Besides having a new hour of O.C. delectability to look forward to virtually every week since fall (an unprecedented 24-episode season!), it has been an unceasing onslaught of dramatic intensity that has indeed rocked me like a hurricane. It has certainly upped the bar from last season in terms of emotional wreckage and, though slightly diminished this year, those oily O.C. asses have more than whetted the appetite. So why am I so sad? Because, numb-nuts, all things of beauty must come to an end – and the end is nigh.

So in an effort to immortalize some of my feelings on the finite season, I shall pen them here. Just bear with me – I know there’s no chance in hell any of you have missed a single episode.

Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. Even though you have the charisma of a Scientologist with a low E-meter reading, I still love you. You’re a big idiot, but I love you. While you’re gallivanting around, brooding over which white wife-beater to wear, your dear brother Trey is introducing his nose to coke (“Nose, coke! Coke, nose! Now while you two lovebirds are catching up, I’ll just be over here with this hot co-ed!”), pilfering set pieces from iconic ’80s teen dramas, tenderizing Marissa’s tura-luras and generally being better-looking than you. So if you want to save your name in this town, you’d better pick your bottom lip off the ground and start stepping up to the plate. Seriously, if you don’t burn something down or sucker-punch someone soon, I’m going to switch teams.

But what’s this? A blast from the past? A reminder of a fresher, more scandalous Ryan? You guessed it, the almost-forgotten Theresa’s back, with her little Chino-bambino in tow, who may or may not be Ryan’s. Hey, if he’s been known to try on a few different pairs of tit-mittens in the past, who’s to say he won’t again? I refuse to believe that Ryan’s fire is burnt out – I just hope he lives it up a little before settling into full-time nipple duty.

And then there’s poor Seth, Zach and Summer. The pages turn, the wheel burns and nobody fucking cares anymore. Have a threesome, and let’s be done with it.

Meanwhile, back at the raunch, Julie Cooper’s plans to murder Caleb are sabotaged by her own conscience, but Caleb kicks the bucket anyway, casting Kirsten off on the vodka boat without an anchor. Sandy, you’ve got your work cut out for you – and I don’t think Thai take-out is going to fix it this time.

And then there’s the trailer. Kirsten’s drunk at Caleb’s funeral, Jimmy comes back to reclaim his family and there’s a gunshot at the bait shop. My theory is that Trey turns the gun on himself and gives Ryan and Marissa enough brood-worthy material to sail them right through the third season which, by the way, has just been confirmed by Fox. See you next fall!