I utterly despise trucks.

...

When I was born, my mother died. My father was devastated. This was to be expected of course.  

Unfortunately for me, my father was not able to cope with the loss of my mother. He remained stuck in his grief. And while he could not bring himself to harm to me. He could aleo not properly take care of me. 

I was 3 months old when my father died. Luckily the neighbors heard my cries. I was then placed in an orphanage. When I was older I learned that my father had died being run over by a speeding truck. The traffic light had apparently been a bright green with no signs of change, when he decided to cross.

I grew up. I went to school on a scholarship. Once I came of age, I started to live on my own with the remaning money my parents had left behind. 

There was nothing particularly special about me. I had no hobbies. I had no close friends. Nor any relatives who were alive. I was quite lonely.

Then I died.

My death came out the same way my father's had. A speeding truck. This time the light had been red. I checked.

My life seems to be quite the joke.