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Gwen, Crad reported, died when she choked on her own vomit in her sleep following a combination of alcohol and barbiturates: “I think she pushed me out of her life because she couldn’t stand me anymore and felt I was making her sick. Her last note to me was completely free of rancor, however, so I prefer to think that she harbored no bad feelings toward me at the end.”

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“Rich, I tested positive,” he said. I couldn’t believe it. I said it must have been a mistake, that he should get retested, that it doesn’t mean he’ll get sick. Josh has never been an IV drug user, has never had a homosexual experience – he’s not in any risk group. “I know I’ll be dead in five years,” he told me.

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Yesterday, when I went to fill out the car insurance forms, the woman at the office asked my occupation. I gave it as “writer,” but she misinterpreted my New York accent and wrote down “rider.” I guess maybe because this is Davie, she thought I was with the rodeo. Do I actually look like a cowboy?

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I was driving down University Drive on my way to Hollywood when a bulletin interrupted a radio call-in show: first they announced “a malfunction” aboard the space shuttle, and then an explosion. I felt sick to my stomach as I heard the news. At the credit union, someone had brought out a TV set and people were watching it numbly.

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Last night I dreamed that People Express had become Animal Express and would only allow pets on their flights.

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Dr. Grasso asked me if I flirt with the girls in my class because so many of them have been coming to her asking if there’s another cute young instructor like me. . . As for Maxine, “Maybe she was trying to get an A in your class,” Dad said. By having sex with my little brother?