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There is a little man who lives in my lungs. His name is Mr. Bluejeans lives inside my lungs. His name is Mr. Bluejeans although he wears a white jumpsuit. He keeps my lungs clean by scrubbing them with a push-broom. I think he took a vacation last week because I was doing a lot of coughing. I would cough so hard I would get headaches. That's no fun. Or I would cough so hard I thought I was gonna barf.

In my feet there is a chimpanzee. He is the common root all human beings share. He is not really a chimpanzee, rather the humans' and chimpanzees' most recent common ancestor. To me, though he seems more like a chimpanzee, which is why I call him that. His name is Ralph.

There is a cowboy who lives in my neck. There is a doorway out of my neck onto my left shoulder. To the cowboy this is like a balcony/patio. He has barbeques. The cowboy tells me to do things in his delightfully westerny dialect. I am lucky that I don't have a cowboy who tries to make me burn down buildings and such. If I did, I would have to constantly be thinking in order to counter-act his commands. I mostly do what the cowboy says when I am zoning out.

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