In his youth, the author dreamed of becoming a writer. He tried, stubbornly creaking his pencils. I didn’t, due to lack of life experience. Later, life got complicated and there was no time to write. I hoped that someday I would tell you about everything. It turned out that memory is a very unreliable function. But the dream remained. When age began to remind itself, it was time to take stock. By that time, a significant baggage of events had been accumulated, so it was decided to write memoirs. It’s just that after so many years I’ve completely forgotten how to write. I had to remember the rules of grammar, punctuation and much more. Along the way, it turned out that the life of an ordinary person is not interesting to anyone, even close people. Then the author began to have intimate conversations and listen. My compatriots have a sentimental peculiarity - a desire to confess, speak out, turn their soul inside out, especially when one on one and over a glass of tea. I tried it and it worked. I've been writing ever since. Contains obscene language.