Darling repressed her complex as best as she could, but she couldn't help the sinking feeling that everyone knew she was nothing but a hunk of circuits, chrome, and human skin.
She was machine. She felt like a person.
Her hair was of the highest quality of poor woman's locks.
Her clothing ripped off the backs of the most defenseless animals.
She was perfect in every way, no blemish or flaw on her synthetic skin.
Yet, Darling had a complex.
Her mind could never escape the machine code crunching out the same generic line.
"You're an ideal not something real."