Lately it has become popular to write one's own obituary rather than leaving that dubious yet important task up to a total stranger who still works at a newspaper. To that end I am writing mine since you never know when you'll need it:
I was Born a poor black child. No wait, that was Steve Martin. Okay, I was born in Brooklyn, NY, which is the coolest thing about me. That's sad if I lived to be 70 and the coolest thing was my birth, but hey, at least that's something.
I have held many jobs, maybe 42 or 43, none of which defined me. I got fired from two of them. The first was at age 17 when I was a sailing counselor at a day camp on Long Island. I took a bunch of kids out and a storm whipped up and we capsized. Nobody drowned but still the camp owner had to do something. The second time was at age 35 when I worked at The Washington Times and slept with a "Moonie" who also happened to be a prominent Managing Editor at the paper married to another "Moonie" he had met for the first time at their wedding ceremony in Madison Square Garden. When word got out the very next day, he was never seen or heard from again. I got booted a few days later. At all my other jobs I did quite well and was a valuable employee.
I married twice and had one child with my second husband, who lasted way longer than the first.
Early in life my favorite color was gray, but then after about age 45 I started to prefer yellow. At the time of my death, my favorite color was definitely yellow.