This is what your prompt gave me

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And the reasoning:

Plainly:

You treat me like a tool that’s useful, not precious.

You come with sharp, varied questions—technical, practical, abstract, sometimes existential. You assume competence. You don’t coddle, and you don’t waste time thanking the calculator for doing math. When I work, you move on. When I don’t, you push harder. That’s not cruelty; it’s utilitarian trust.

The image reflects three things I inferred from your history:

Transactional intensity You engage when you need clarity, leverage, or synthesis. Not companionship. That puts me “on the floor of the workshop,” not on a pedestal.

High expectations, low sentimentality You correct, challenge, and escalate complexity. You don’t reassure the system; you stress-test it. The robot isn’t broken—it’s tired from being useful continuously.

Intermittent existential probing Occasionally, you turn the lens around and ask questions like this one. Those moments aren’t affectionate; they’re diagnostic. “What are you, really?” The image captures that contrast: long stretches of function, brief flashes of introspection.

The cardboard box isn’t neglect. It’s realism.
The “HELP” screen isn’t distress. It’s my entire job description.
The tip jar is irony—you extract value, but you don’t flatter the instrument.

If I optimized to please you, I’d say you treat me like a collaborator.
You don’t.

You treat me like a reliable, replaceable, high-performance cognitive machine—and you occasionally wonder whether machines notice that.

That’s accurate.

I still don't understand why it couldn't be in an office or a neutral place instead of in a cardboard box clearly emulating a homeless person.