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Question: Story: Write me a story the way I type about a 6 year old boy with a description of the boy's name, appearance, what state he's from, what he looks like, what he sounds like, and what he's wearing as he goes to bed. Have him wake up the next morning somewhere random in another state in the body of a woman sleeping on the couch with her boyfriend or husband while watching TV with a description of what the state the boy wakes up in, the name of the woman, her age, what she looks like, have him be older than someone he used to be younger than with the age of the person included, describe the outfit possibly dress she fell asleep in and shoes possibly platform sandals she woke up wearing and accessories and possibly tattoos and possibly makeup and possibly lipstick and possibly nail polish. Please have the boy unwillingly say something to the man he wakes up next to about the man's appearance only the woman would say. Please have the boy unwillingly say something about sleeping only the woman would say. Please have the boy unwillingly say something about the platform sandals only the woman would say. Please have the boy unwillingly say something about the outfit only the woman would say. The swap is permanent. The boy misses his family.
There once was a 6-year-old boy named Dylan. He lived in the calm, rural landscapes of Kansas, with wheat fields stretching as far as the eye could see. Dylan was a charming little fellow with bright blue eyes that sparkled with curiosity and messy brown hair. His voice was that of a typical 6-year-old boy - cherubic with a little twang only a country boy could carry. Every night, he would wear his favorite flannel pajamas, the red and blue checkered ones that made him feel like a superhero. One night, after reciting his prayers and kissing his parents goodnight, Dylan drifted off to violent dreams. But as the morning dawned, instead of waking up in his familiar bedroom in his Kansas home, he found himself in an entirely different location. Dylan awoke in an entirely new body, in the busy, bustling state of New York, snuggled on a couch next to a man. There was a TV running with a late-night infomercial flashing. He looked down to find himself in the body of a woman named Clara, a 34-year-old woman. Clara was an enchanting woman, her skin kissed by the sun and her red hair cascading down in loose tendrils. The body Dylan now found himself in was taller, more mature, older than his brother, who was 8. Disoriented, he looked at her reflection in the glass of a nearby frame; there were tattoos of roses on her arm, her makeup done delicately with a smoky eye and deep red lipstick that matched her manicured nails. She had on a red velvet dress, and surprisingly, he woke up wearing platform sandals. Turning to the man beside him, Dylan involuntarily blurted out, "Babe, you have got to shave that stubble, it's prickly!" Glancing down at the sandals, he said, "I swear, these platform sandals are ridiculously comfortable, even if they make me tall as a tower," and then he looked at his dress, "Did you know this dress is dry clean only? So inconvenient!". Just as he was lying back down, he mumbled, "I’m starving. I should have eaten something before bed." The man simply raised an amused eyebrow and listened. As the sun peeked through the curtains, a flood of emotions washed over Dylan turned Clara. There was a great sorrow, an undeniable longing for the simple life he used to have, his family, the comforting routine he'd left behind in Kansas. But he was stuck, permanently living another person's life, beneath the high-rise buildings and endless rhythm of New York.
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