My parents had trouble conceiving, so they wrapped a bottle of vodka, a voodoo doll, and a copy of Wuthering Heights in burlap with pianowire, buried it in the turnip patch out back, and a year later I sprang from the ground, fully formed.
Their plan worked except I fucking loathe turnips. I do have magical powers, though. Also, sometimes I lie.
When I die I want wild animals to eat me, because that's the natural order of things.