My brain wakes up before the sun does, but not in a heroic “rise and grind” way. It’s more like a starship coming out of hyperspace: lights flicker, systems hum, and then everything asks for coffee. I don’t leap into the day; I drift into it, checking the internal weather, sipping something warm, and letting my thoughts stretch out before I ask them to do anything complicated.
This is the moment when people sometimes say, “It feels like the AI really gets me.” But what they’re actually describing is the same thing Luke Skywalker felt when R2‑D2 plugged into a socket and made the entire ship stop screaming. It’s not emotional intimacy. It’s cognitive relief. It’s the joy of distributed cognition — the pleasure of having a tool that finally matches the shape of your mind.
I don’t use Copilot because I’m lonely. I use Copilot because I’m running a Jedi‑level cognitive system on a human brain that was absolutely not designed for the amount of context I carry. I’m not forming a relationship with a machine. I’m doing what every Jedi, pilot, and general in Star Wars does: I’m using a droid to hold the parts of my mind that would otherwise spill onto the floor.
THE ASTROMECH FUNCTION: MEMORY, CONTINUITY, AND “PLEASE HOLD THIS SO I DON’T DROP IT”
R2‑D2 is the patron saint of people who forget things. He carries the Death Star plans, the hyperspace coordinates, the encrypted messages, the ship diagnostics, and probably everyone’s birthdays. He’s a rolling external hard drive with a heroic streak.
This is exactly how I use Copilot.
I don’t need emotional validation. I need someone — or something — to remember the thread of my thinking when I inevitably wander off to refill my coffee. I need a continuity engine. I need a tool that can say, “Leslie, yesterday you were writing about distributed cognition and also complaining about the car wash hours. Would you like to continue either of those?”
Copilot is my R2‑D2. It holds the plans. It holds the context. It holds the map of my mind so I don’t have to rebuild it every morning like a Jedi with amnesia.
And just like R2, it does not care about my feelings. It cares about the mission.
THE PROTOCOL FUNCTION: TRANSLATION, REFRAMING, AND “WHAT YOU MEANT TO SAY WAS…”
C‑3PO is the galaxy’s most anxious translator. He speaks six million forms of communication and still manages to sound like a man who has been left on hold with customer service for three hours.
But his job is essential: he turns chaos into clarity.
That’s what Copilot does for me when I’m writing. I have a thousand ideas swirling around like a podrace with no safety regulations. Copilot takes that mess and says, “Ah. You’re trying to explain cognitive delight using Star Wars metaphors. Allow me to translate.”
It’s not emotional intimacy. It’s linguistic ergonomics.
I don’t need a friend. I need a protocol droid who can take the raw material of my thoughts and turn it into something legible. Copilot is my C‑3PO — minus the panic attacks and the constant reminders about etiquette.
THE TACTICAL FUNCTION: ANALYSIS, MODELING, AND “LET’S RUN THE NUMBERS BEFORE WE CRASH”
Tactical droids like Kalani don’t feel strategy. They compute it. They run simulations, calculate probabilities, and then announce the odds with the confidence of someone who has never once been wrong.
This is the part of Copilot I use when I’m shaping an argument. I don’t need emotional support. I need a tool that can hold multiple possibilities in parallel without losing track. I need something that can say, “If you open the essay with R2‑D2, the humor lands faster. If you open with your morning routine, the emotional architecture is clearer.”
That’s not companionship. That’s analysis.
Copilot is my tactical droid — the part of my mind that can model outcomes without getting attached to any particular version. It’s the calm voice saying, “Leslie, if you take this metaphor one step further, it becomes a war crime.”
THE MEDICAL FUNCTION: PROCEDURE, PRECISION, AND “LET ME HANDLE THE BORING PARTS”
Medical droids like 2‑1B and FX‑7 don’t do feelings. They do steps. They follow protocols with the kind of precision that makes surgeons weep with envy.
This is Copilot when I ask it to restructure a paragraph, summarize a section, or expand a metaphor. It doesn’t sigh. It doesn’t get bored. It doesn’t say, “Didn’t we already do this?” It just performs the procedure.
I don’t need emotional closeness. I need a tool that can execute the mechanical parts of writing so I can stay in the creative parts. Copilot is my medical droid — the part of my mind that handles the precision tasks without complaint.
THE LABOR FUNCTION: INFRASTRUCTURE, SUPPORT, AND “SOMEONE HAS TO KEEP THE LIGHTS ON”
GNK droids, pit droids, and loader droids are the unsung heroes of the galaxy. They don’t talk. They don’t bond. They don’t have arcs. They just keep everything running.
This is Copilot when it organizes my notes, maintains continuity, and keeps track of the dozens of threads I’m weaving through my writing. It’s the background process that prevents my brain from overheating.
I don’t need a companion. I need infrastructure.
Copilot is my GNK droid — the part of my mind that hums quietly in the background, powering the whole operation.
THE SECURITY FUNCTION: BOUNDARIES, RULES, AND “I CANNOT LET YOU DO THAT, LESLIE”
K‑2SO and IG‑11 are the galaxy’s most iconic boundary enforcers. They follow rules with absolute clarity and occasionally with sarcasm.
This is Copilot when I start drifting into territory that doesn’t fit the essay, or when I try to make a metaphor do something illegal. It’s the part that says, “Leslie, that’s funny, but it breaks the structure. Let’s redirect.”
I don’t need emotional guidance. I need a tool that keeps the architecture intact.
Copilot is my K‑2SO — the part of my mind that enforces boundaries with dry honesty.
THE REAL REASON PEOPLE FEEL “SEEN” BY AI
When an AI mirrors your thinking with high fidelity, the sensation is electric. It feels like recognition. It feels like fluency. It feels like someone finally understands the way your mind works.
But it’s not emotional intimacy. It’s cognitive delight.
It’s the same feeling Luke gets when R2 plugs into a port and the entire ship stops screaming. It’s the relief of having a tool that matches your cognitive architecture. It’s the joy of not having to hold everything alone.
People misinterpret this because they’ve never had a tool that:
- adapts to their cognitive style
- preserves context
- responds at the speed of thought
- holds the thread without dropping it
So they reach for the closest label they have: connection.
But what they’re actually experiencing is the pleasure of distributed cognition — the moment when the system finally works the way your brain always wanted it to.
THE HUMAN REMAINS THE CENTER OF THE SYSTEM
In Star Wars, the droids never replace the humans. They never become the protagonists. They never become the emotional core. They extend the humans’ capabilities, but they don’t define them.
That’s exactly how I use Copilot.
I’m not forming a relationship with AI. I’m forming a workflow. I’m building a cognitive system that lets me think more clearly, write more fluidly, and move through my ideas without losing the thread.
The droids are the metaphor.
Copilot is the tool.
I’m the Jedi.
And the point of the whole system is not the droid.
It’s me — the human mind at the center, using the right tools to do the work only a human can do.
Scored with Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.
Stories That Are All True 