“Raisins again. I like raisins, but I have a habit of losing one or two on the floor every time I eat them. I always find them later and think they are: a) a mouse turd or b) a cockroach. Then I figure out it's a raisin and sigh with relief. This pretty much happens every time I find a lost raisin.”

“I did it." Who leaves a message like that? Who is so paranoid that they have to be so cryptic? If this wasn't day one of my Summer of Nothing, I might be in a hurry to figure this out. but first: breakfast.”

“I myself, however, could never resist the temptation to read raisin paste for wine in the story of the Miracle of Cana. "When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made raisin paste ... he said unto the bridegroom, 'Every man doth at the beginning doth set forth good raisin paste, and when men have well drunk [eaten? the text is no doubt corrupt], then that which is worse, but thou hast kept the good raisin paste until now.”

“What if I have bad breath?' I asked.'Chew on some gum,' she said.'What if I can't find his tongue?''Back off on your tongue until you can feel his.''What if he throws up in my mouth?''Um, that would just be gross.”

“When I die, I want them to bury me facedown and ass up so that the whole world can kiss my ass!”

“What happens to a dream deferred? / Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?”

“It's all good, apart from the raisins.”