The patient's chart contains a DNR; no heroic or expensive measures are to be taken to prolong his life. However, it is hoped that the patient's current quality of life can be maintained for as long as possible, preferably until at least May, such as to delay the time that his faster, younger, smaller, and better-looking replacement must join the family. (The DNR order is not due to any true sadness or sentimentality on the part of the mother, but simply to allow the chosen adoptee to be as fast, young, small, and good-looking as possible.)
The patient has been able to muster enough strength to leave a memoir: his numerous gigabytes of memories and activities have been dutifully recorded by his big brother External Eighty-Gig. His successor will take on all the old memories, but will learn from his predecessor's mistakes and streamline his non-essential downloaded program repertoire to include only Firefox, iTunes, Photoshop, Limewire, Google Desktop, Skype, and dbPowerAMP.
The patient is still clinging to life, but while his keyboard is still active and responsive: adieu, O dear Compac Presario X1000. You have served me reasonably well for three long years, and on both sides of the ocean, too. Even if you were a bit overweight and slow on the uptake, and even if you lost my trust forever when you crashed with all my data in September 2003, you nonetheless taught me many important lessons. One should not download random unnecessary programs (no matter how cool they look), one should drain one's laptop battery regularly and not leave AC power on all the time, and one should not overload one's hard drive with downloaded movies when one can just buy the DVDs instead. I will always remember you as my introduction to computing portability. Farewell.
And now, on to bigger and better things.