September 27, 2002 | 3:29 PM

I was going to write an entry about love.

And I started ten times. And I erased all of them. And then I got depressed and nervous.

And I decided I wasn�t going to write an entry about love.

So I minimized Microsoft Word and went back to my marketing project.

And then I felt even more depressed and nervous. I started thinking about

Long dormroom mattresses

And sausages at 2:00 AM in smoky dank diners near the bus station

And writing bad poetry in rounds

And the snow on the porch and the sunlight hitting it, breath hanging in the air and shivering, burrowing against a strong tender arm.

And a bunch of things that I want to say and can�t. Things I can�t say to anyone. Things I can�t even bring myself to think about because I just can�t and will not think about them. I don�t want to think about them. It is pointless to think about them.

What do we talk about when we talk about love? Somebody much more brilliant than me asked that question. And now he�s dead. Before he died he gave up his alcoholism and then he dropped dead anyway. And now his editor is trying to take credit for his work.

Is that what we talk about when we talk about love?

Because I don�t even know what the fuck to talk about when I talk about love. As far as I�m concerned loneliness is more nourishing than love because you can count on it and you know it will always be there for you. And love�love cannot be held down. It is a free thing, a wild thing. It comes and goes as it pleases with no warning. It is inconsistent and cruel. It has nothing to do with obligation or dependence. It does what it wishes and it is nothing to build a life around.

So what do I talk about when I talk about love? I talk about it with a great resolve to banish it forever from my list of priorities. If it finds me, I�ll let it hang around and enjoy its company, knowing full well that sooner or later, it will most likely run along to greener pastures, so I needn�t pay it too much mind.