Or more accurately, she is the box. She’s a virtual machine running in my head, and I use her as a staging area for the things I say and do. It’s obviously a woefully incomplete emulation; she would probably get stuck in a loop if I asked her about kids, for example, and would immediately crash if asked to process male submission. I’m constitutionally disinclined to fix either flaw, so she’ll always be pretty broken.
But I like her that way. Her error rate —while objectively high— is low enough to produce useful results, and her missing pieces can be easily mistaken for the empty, out-of-order, or walled-off areas one often finds in a real woman’s psyche. And slowly but surely, with enough input, she gets just a little better.
Some people, of course, simply refer to all of this as “empathy”. But that’s only because they’re no fun.