RTFM. Typically, most computer people squirt this acronym nonchalantly. As the result of impatience or laziness. As the result of boredom, or just because they are snobbish Israeli guys. Read The Fuckin' Manual. Even if you claim that actually, these damn letters originate from "Read The Fine Manual", or even if you hold with the improbably explanation of "Read The fabulous Manual", you would not be helping in making the acronym deter her less. If you pushed her to the wall she would read the documentation and understand it well, but it would take her such a long time.

As years went by she managed to acquire a decent inter-disciplinary information pool. By and by she spoke with the right people, or more important---listened. She can listen. She can make them teach her thing with endless patience, the very same patience they miss when a man asks them the same question. They teach her things they heard in Technion lectures, or that they read in the right books. Sometimes she almost feels as if she read it herself. Other people study from books. She studies from the air.

She stores the information. Dusts it every so often, to reinforce it by adding another neuron path that will store the same data. She must be like a good water hole that does not lose a drop of water. The cost of regaining the information is astronomical.

She compresses her memory, trying to use a lossless compression algorithm. The cache must be used for things she is currently occupied with. However, her filing system always gets her the right datum at the right moment. She would have loved to use some paging, to store memory pages that she currently does not need in her notebook, but it will be too difficult for her to write. And I already told you how hard it will be for her to read. In contrast to the German professor who kept all his library in his head, she never had any library to begin with.

The operating system she developed for her brain was a necessity, given the deficiencies in her I/O devices. It was a necessity because she must have information. Her virgin mind is trying to resolve the basic questions of the universe, and she needs tools. Tools, but not impositions. She does not want to be modified, she does not wish to have her way of thinking molded into a template. If she learned the language, she would bind herself. Her thinking will be restricted to the limited university vocabulary.

The world is a riddle, and she is here to find the answer. Every new idea is a toy for her to play with, to turn it upside down, to implement in domains that are orthogonal to the domain from which she borrowed it.

Few are the people who can communicate with her without treading all over her, without dictating her thoughts, without mocking. She looks for these few noon and night. Online and in the university, from Israel all the way to Australia.

They are men, usually. And they crave her. She is a true blond, and she looks great. So they try. They do their best to help her develop her theories and put them to the test of reality. One day, she will marry a guy with a PhD in Physics, and he will implement her ideas. He will create the supreme interaction with her.

She does not pretend she understands, but she wants to. And she will get there---on her own terms, in her own rate.