Because I am a nerd, watching “Lost” holds a fairly prominent position in my top-five list of things to do whenever possible. Because I am a nerd who commits, the vigor and tenacity with which I pursue this activity is rivaled only by the vigor and tenacity with which I read comic strips, visit Wikipedia and think about Princess Leia naked.

Oddly enough, my fascination with the greatest television show ever has rarely proven beneficial to me outside the realm of my own Cheeto-stained self-indulgence. I cannot list “Big fan of ‘Lost’” as a qualification on my resume. I have never successfully introduced the Dharma Initiative into a conversation about modern scientific exploration. And, despite my dashing good looks, women tend to step slowly away when I begin discussing the mysteries of the Island.

“What do you think the statue is?”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The one with four toes.”

“I’m gonna go now.”

This in mind, it has recently occurred to me that my relationship with “Lost” may be somewhat unhealthy. According to my calculations, I have spent roughly 120 hours of my life watching the show, roughly 42 hours thinking about it, roughly 23 hours thinking about how much I think about it and roughly 16 hours trying to understand the concept of irony.

This is, of course, in addition to the eight-month period during which I discussed the show at length with my former roommate, who — after being hit by a truck and prescribed massive amounts of Vicodin — could formulate theories about the smoke monster for days at a time without moving from the couch. He was the greatest friend I ever had.

Now, with only six episodes left in the series, my obsession has peaked. “Fan” is no longer an adequate description of my association with the show. Rather, I tend to think of myself as a disciple — a devoted follower hand-picked to receive the vast wealth of sci-fi awesomeness sure to pour from these final episodes. The journey has been long and strenuous; the Hulu sessions have been rife with emotion; the damage to my social life has been considerable.

As with any great obsession, however, comes the inevitable pull of desperation. Like a junkie torn from his fix or an unpopular kid torn from his Xbox, I will soon be separated from “Lost” forever — left to pore aimlessly over reruns and the fast-approaching barrage of weirdo fan fiction sure to spring from the show’s ashes.

This sad realization has left me to contemplate the exact mechanisms by which I may cope with losing such an important part of my life. As I see it, my best options are as follows:

1) Maroon myself on a tropical island and spend the next six years re-enacting the entire show.

This would be pretty weird, and would likely have some negative effects on my relationships with my parents, my friends and anyone I ever meet for the rest of my life. On the upside, there’s a good chance that — after a few months of social isolation and the rigors of surviving in the wild — I would absorb my delusion entirely and begin to hallucinate, thus enhancing the realism of the whole experience.

As a bonus, this would also set me up perfectly to be the subject of a successful Oliver Stone movie. I would be played by Jonah Hill, and my love interest would be portrayed by Natalie Portman dressed as Queen Amidala. The sex scenes alone would merit an oscar nomination

2) Obsessively stalk the show’s principal cast members.

Also weird, though less likely to end with me starving to death than Option one. Despite popular misconception, the stalking of celebrities is in fact a noble pursuit that can further one’s academic study of a particular character or work of fiction. It would also potentially give me the opportunity to spend some time in prison ­— a condition that would allow me to live out the excitement of Ben’s captivity in the hatch during Season Two, or Jack’s imprisonment on Hydra Island during Season Three.

3) Start a “Lost” blog.

I am not that big of a loser.

4) Find a new show to watch.

A distinct possibility, though carrying around the kind of emotional baggage sure to come with my traumatic “Lost” breakup will render me wholly incapable of appreciating action, intrigue or witty dialogue in any form for at least four years. As it stands, I’d rather find a new pile of decomposing animal parts to stare at, which would be at least as good as anything else on ABC.