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David recorded our singing of “Silent Night” and we passed a cookie around, eating it from mouth to mouth; I bit deep into the chocolate chip so my lips could touch Angelina’s, and then Libby and I kissed under the mistletoe.

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After an hour of lovemaking, Ronna said, “I feel strange.” “No, you don’t,” I told her. “You’re right,” she said. “I feel good.”

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The two cute guys from next door, Lance and Ari, were so sweet: they offered to do the dishes after we ate as Teresa, Jan and I raced out to Broadway to catch a movie at the 83rd Street Triplex.

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Alice is pretty hard to impress. On Tuesday night, she walked out of a ritzy party at Studio 54 (a big disco) because all the people there were so pompous in their hip way.

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I like being playful, and I think it’s important not to be afraid to look silly. I don’t have to act a certain way because I’m 26; I don’t see why I can’t behave as though I’m 16.

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In 1969, when I was subject to the draft and marching against the war, guys like Charles and Kevin were only 11 or 12, and there’s a big difference between us. I don’t think they perceive me as an older person, though they kid me about it.

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The Bread Loaf librarian told me there’s a “new spirit” at the Conference: people like Toni Morrison have changed it from a wild circus of sex and drinking to a quiet place where people discuss and share mutual interests.

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Everything in this city is breaking down. After the blackout, the lootings, the heat wave, Son of Sam’s murders and the bombings, the Daily News editorial said, “We Don’t Deserve This.” Everyone’s nerves are raw.