Carrie Fisher—who died Tuesday, days after suffering a heart attack—packed a whole lot of living into her 60 years on earth. She was an actress, of course, best known for her role in the Star Wars movies (as well as smaller but no less memorable parts in films like When Harry Met Sally and TV shows like 30 Rock). She was a mental health advocate who spoke bravely and publicly about her struggles with bipolar disorder. She was, at one point, one of Hollywood's most sought-after script doctors, using her signature wit to punch up everything from Sister Act to, yes, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace.

But especially in her later life, Carrie Fisher was, primarily, a writer—one with an unmistakable voice and self-deprecating humor. You can see it in her novels (like Postcards from the Edge); you can see it in her memoirs (like The Princess Diarist). But its best showcase may have been the obituary Fisher wrote for herself.

In Wishful Drinking—a one-woman show Fisher later adapted into a book—Fisher dug into her complicated relationship with the Star Wars franchise, which both made her a household name and, she jokingly wrote, "ruined" her life. One of her most amusing anecdotes about shooting the first film involves Princess Leia's signature white outfit and a special bit of world-building by Star Wars czar George Lucas:

George comes up to me the first day of filming and he takes one look at the dress and says, "You can't wear a bra under that dress."

So, I say, "Okay, I'll bite. Why?"

And he says, "Because. . . there's no underwear in space."

Right! Of course! There are, however, gold bikinis in space; everyone knows that.

According to Fisher, Lucas did eventually explain why galaxies far, far away are underwear-free zones—which led her to a great gag about how she'd eventually like to go:

What happens is you go to space and you become weightless. So far so good, right? But then your body expands??? But your bra doesn't—so you get strangled by your own bra.

Now I think that this would make for a fantastic obit—so I tell my younger friends that no matter how I go, I want it reported that I drowned in moonlight, strangled by my own bra.

As you wish, your Worshipfulness.