If my empty fridge could speak, it would sigh with the melodrama of a soap opera star. "My shelves are as barren as a desert in a heatwave," it would lament, in a voice tinged with fridge-tingling loneliness. "I'm the Picasso of emptiness, a masterpiece of solitude. 

Even the light inside me feels like it's on vacation. My crisper drawers are like a ghost town, and the door shelves are staging a protest for lack of purpose. I've got more space than a parking lot on a Monday morning. Please, someone bring me a carton of milk or a lonely carrot to break the silence!

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