Again, with the gait of a hungry old zombie, I am delirium to the refrigerator. Need to find something to eat. As a true bachelor and experienced alcoholic, I had certain problems with cooking. Yes, I knew how to cook, and the former girls claimed that it was even good, but when I was left alone, I scored a bolt on this matter. The white iron friend opened his wide mouth, baring his teeth in rows of empty shelves, and I stared into his pale luminous abyss. So, here we have soup. How old is he already? A week? Two? I don't remember under what circumstances he even appeared and...