March 29, 2002 | 9:27 PM

Got back recently from a lovely dinner with Jessie. Good food (fish and chips). Good wine (cabernet�many glasses; gee how unlike me). Good conversation.

A grand dinner with a grand girl.

My apartment was silent and dark when I arrived home. I was slightly tipsy but not tipsy enough for a Friday evening. After checking for scary rodents that might eat me (refer to The Boyfriend�s latest entry) and finding none scuttling about, I went out to purchase some more vino.

On my way to the liquor store, I was hit on by not one, but three different men. One of them was a rather hot yuppiesh Caucasian fellow in a suit�early thirties. The other two were Latino�one hot, one scuzzy. They were also both in their early thirties as far as I could tell.

Now, the liquor store is literally a thirty-second walk from my house. How was it that on this mild mannered Friday evening, I would be accosted by so many amorous boys? I mean, I am definitely not your typically hot Allston girl�size six, blonde, tight black pants wearing, cell phone sporting, Gucci bag swinging Barbie doll. Not in the least. Yet I can�t walk to the fucking packy without being fawned over?

Here�s my theory in two parts:

Part 1: It is the first real day of Spring in Boston. You can smell the sap in the air. These boys are probably just randy from the shift in season.

Part 2: I have love making on the brain. Ladies and gentlemen, I have thought about nothing but sex for the past week. Being mauled. Shoved against a wall. Bitten. Taken. Adored. Sucking some beautiful boy�s neck and biting his lovely lip. And unconsciously, I was probably sending out vibes. Do thoughts create matter? Or at least inform matter? I think they do, to an extent.

After arriving back at my abode, I uncorked a bottle and sipped thoughtfully while I proceeded to talk to myself for upwards of half an hour. Yes, I am admitting a bad habit I�ve had since childhood. When no one is around, I have conversations with myself. I attempt to talk myself into and out of things. I tell myself stories. I recite poems. Whatever. I especially do this when things are going on that I can�t�or rather don�t feel comfortable or ready enough to discuss with someone else.

I feel so unsettled. My world has been upset. The SAGA continues. Will it ever end? I would really like peace and quiet. Or would I? I want adventure. Challenge. Poetry. Art. Craziness. I want to dreg deep the marrow of life. I am thirsty for experience. To hell with safe havens.

Oh�I thought of a contest I�d like to run. It�s called the Drink Anna Under The Table contest. And here�s how it works. You take me out to a bar and see if you can drink me under the table. We have witty repartee and share secrets and jokes until one of us loses our shit. Whomever is left standing pays, and I walk back triumphantly to my apartment (or crawl back to my apartment, if for some bizarre untold reason I lose.) I seriously doubt you can drink me under the table, but if you want to try, let me know. Nobody I�ve ever met has been able to do it yet. I am not just bragging. It�s the gosh darn truth. You�re talking to a girl who once drank fifteen Long Island Iced Teas and sauntered into work the next day. You're dealing with someone who downed four bottles of champagne in one evening and a couple of Guinesses to top off the bubbly and didn�t even throw up the next morning. You think you can outdo that? Bring it on smart guy. I double dare you.

Oh. I did a SAGA update earlier today. You should read it if you haven�t already.