Organza: A Memoir: Proof I Existed

It's past time to tote up what I’ve learned and how I changed from Estelle Smith to Honey Bun to The Missus to Twinkle to Amelia Earhart to—it goes on. Now, I call myself “Organza.” Organza isn't sturdy, like overall material. You have to watch not to step on the hem or it'll rip. You can see right through it and it's airy, not concealing. I’ve got a lot of mends from all the fall downs and rips through the years, but how can you live without having to do some darning?
The mind is a bucket. Everything you see, hear, act, think, do, sense, learn, imagine goes in randomly. If you outlive your bucket’s capacity, stuff begins to randomly spill out and will land on whomever is there at the time. Like Mister Ellis telling me about riding a train’s cow catcher from Dismal, North Dakota to Los Angeles. Now I’ve got overflow of my mind bucket and so do you, Phantom Reader. The only way to prevent it, is to die young. Enough. More than enough.