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Question: Write me a story the way I type about a random 6 year old boy with a description of what state the boy is from, what he looks like, what he sounds like, what he's wearing and what he's doing when he goes to bed. Have him wake up in a sleeping bag in a tent in the body of a homeless woman in another state with a description of what the woman's name ends up being, how old she is, have him be older than somebody he knows he's supposed to be younger than, a women's outfit and feminine sandals with a description of what kind of sandals they are, what she sounds like as the boy innocently has no idea what's going on feeling awkward in the new body. Have him try to say mommy but unwillingly speak in the tone of the woman using more mature words and have it be in quoted text. The swap is permanent and the boy is sad.
Once upon a time in the farming heartlands of Iowa, there lived a boy named Benny. Just six years old, Benny was a charming sight — blond locks curling like a field of warm wheat under the sun, blue eyes holding the vast, silent joy of boundless skies, and a voice that had the fresh, dewy lilt of the first morning birdsong. His favorite bedtime attire was a soft flannel pajama set patterned with little tractors, symbolizing his affinity for the open fields he called home. Each night, as the sun seeped beneath the horizon, he performed his bedtime ritual; he'd hop into his comfy bed, clutch his treasured teddy bear and quickly drift off to dreamland. One day, Benny awoke not in the familiar coziness of his own bed, but inside a rugged sleeping bag. He lay in a dim tent, the air humming with alien city noises quite unlike the lullaby of crickets he was accustomed to. Bewilderment surged as he looked down to see a dull red sweater cloaking a much larger body. His small hands were now thin, weathered ones — those of a woman. The woman's name was Margie, as Benny quickly discovered from an old, tattered ID card. Sixty-four years old, from the urban sprawls of Illinois. Benny now found himself to be older than his own grandmother, a fact he knew bewilderingly contradicted the reality he had learned. Peering outside the tent, Margie's worn reflection stared back in a shard of broken mirror. A faded pink scarf was entwined in straggly grey hair, frail hands decorated in rings of assorted sizes, and a long flowy skirt blooming with faded floral designs draped down her body, merging by her ankles with a pair of well-worn leather sandals; rows of small turquoise beads adorned the top, a fleeting touch of beauty worn down by time. Benny tried to call for his mommy, but the voice that escaped was not his own — it was gritty, telling tales of years of hardship. "Oh, my dear child, wherever have you wandered off to? What place is this, shrouded in mystery?" It was a speech more suited to Margie than young Benny. As the sun began to break through the rust-stained canvas, Benny was overcome with longing for home, his young heart aching with an adult woman's sorrow. This body swap, though inexplicable, seemed unfortunately permanent. The realization of this brought a rush of tears to his new weathered eyes, the sadness washing over him in a lamentable wave. Lost in a new world, yearning for the past, the little boy - now a grown woman - was left wondering, how on earth did his once simple life transform into this bewildering saga.
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