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Here's the stuff we found when you searched for "Her name is GLaDOS and everyone in the house refers to her as a she and talks about her like she's alive."

When I look into her eyes, I no longer care about what the world thinks. This is what it feels like to be alive.
They walk around her like she is in danger of breaking
She ties regrets around her fingers like forget-me-knots
You can play with my ex-girlfriend, but treat her like the lady that she is.
She was most amazed by the obvious, like January and the fact that I could not possibly keep her.
I don't like her because she won't like me
It happened to everyone else; she swore it wouldn't to her
Would you like to penetrate her shell, insinuating yourself among the pages of the books she is reading?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
All the while he was talking she was thinking what his whiskers would feel like on the back of her neck
She wears her failed relationships like a shield
It is her name that I think of when I think about being in love.
She thought about giving him her heart
I like it when I dream of her. It's the only time we get to talk.
Susan Goldman, who has cervical cancer, is partly thankful as she braces herself but changes her mind as she's sprayed with burning jet fuel.
She is so beautiful, I gave up Nihilism for her
sunset rainwater turns her sidewalk chalk-art into a sherbert delight; a surprise gift from chaos that tumbles her like tinkling bells onto the wet grass
she left her handwriting all over the calendar
she had already found her party
you never once told her how beautiful she was nor how much you truly loved her
She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings.
if you fear spells, look away when she decides to share her hair with the wind.
while she sleeps, i write myself into her life
She opened her eyes and spoke in a very normal voice, just as if she were sane
I haven't seen her in a month. She is still beautiful.
Don't tell her she's beautiful
About the things you could not show her
I don't tell her these things, and she doesn't ask
why she makes her wishes at 7:07
When you can almost recognize her face, but you can't remember her name
She was so quiet that nobody heard her
She nicknamed her vagina "Crusty"
She crashed her car trying to avoid a butterfly
She smokes. It wraps around her wrists and clings to her neck.
The portion of her face she allows me to see
If you really care about someone, do not tell her to fuck off
She does not take her trip. She does not shout out loud.
She always was devious in her beauty
He touched her once and she turned into a golden creature. He never touched her again.
Don't Kill Her Daddy with Careless Talk
A dose of mystery slipped into her cocktail while she was in the ladies' room
i gave her my heart. she gave me a pen.
Her self image was not the force field she imagined it to be
She does not rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch
She is the sea. Above her, he is thunder.
Because I still love her, because I know she still loves me.
does she need to touch her own face to know?
Ask her if she's got an answer
She is a night of dark trees, but he who is not afraid of her darkness will find banks full of roses under her cypresses
Robert Lionel Fanthorpe fills up the word count in a science fiction novel: she brushed her teeth
She's a stallion, let her run
She Called in Her Soul to Come and See
I gave her my heart, she tore it apart, and who gives a fart.
She, the Last Leviathan. She, the Station Agent. Chin on her Palm, she Watches Every Departure.
She said, while hugging a bowl of turnips close to her bosom
She asked me to read her a poem
She sat in virginal white, eyes closed, with only her face in rose
Her innocence fell. She kicked at it some, frowned, and left it there because it was beautiful.
She found her bliss between the headphones, and pursed her lips.
She asked me to copy my poem into her notebook
serene. She sips her tea
I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.
I can't find her in this house of dust and bones
The emotion on her face was always the one that she was feeling in her heart
She Will Have Her Way: The Songs Of Tim & Neil Finn
She who leaves men as flaming wrecks in the ditch on the side of the road in her wake, yea, even submarines
Her smile, thinking about you
And her legs went on forever, like staring up at infinity
In a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful.
her ardent eyebrows are charcoal scimitars taut above eyes that breeze like open windows
Some nights, alone, he thinks of her, and some nights, alone, she thinks of him
When she sleeps, is she not moving her legs aside for an unknown garrison?
the way she wears her weary
Something is Alive in Her Bosom
Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth
And she's walking as if her feet hurt
what she's building now, it isn't much, but it's hers
She'd move, breaking the magnetism between her chair and my desk
she lit her thumb on fire
I told her I could read her mind, but she didn't believe me. I could tell.
She disappeared as if he had only dreamed her
She was the prettiest, loveliest cat at the ball and she had upon her fine gilded whiskers.
What do girls think about guys when they catch guys staring at their breasts, but the guy is actually trying to read her shirt?
waiting for his arms to fold like wings around her
She said her father died of cancer in the sixties
That was what her hunger was like: mesmerizing, directed, floating like a public secret just under the cloud cover.
I would have attempted to draw her if she had stayed that way.
My friend is dating someone who likes him far more than he likes her
She asked me if I loved her and I showed her the tattoo
She always confused her greys with white.
she gave her heart to a falling star
She keeps her lies everywhere
Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt
A girl I know had her jaw wired shut, and she vomited.
Her name was Natalie
The colors flow through her like a rainbow
like a tiger without her mountain
Nice Legs, Shame About Her Face
thinking about her
She was never mine. I always shared her.
Sometimes the apathy she saw made her want to curl up and cry
I don't think she even knows that I make her smile
Even the moon likes to change her colors
She plugs her tears in the way you'd keep a dam from breaking
Her perception of how gorgeous she is will be evident in her lack of movement during sex
Talk to Her
Ducks can swim. What about her pearls?
She grew a little older, while he was telling her
She was inside the music, with her eyes closed
Tied up tight, like a bride on her wedding night
Don't tell me about her
She bruised her knee. This is how we met.
Veronica loves manipulating her vagina until she explodes
Slap Her... She's French
I ate her love like a nine-piece bucket of chicken
Her name is Rebecca
It clings to her like dedication in the rain
At night, her eyes closed, she would
She opened her eyes, looked at a world made entirely of white light
Fuck and please her like never before with the Stimulator!
She calls him Sugarcane. He calls her Hurricane.
Snatched away, like the Lindberg baby, who everyone talked about, which explains my lifelong fear of ladders.
She Will Have Her Way
Her name is Claire
And she, with her beautiful words and such a fire burning inside
She gets caught in the little world beneath her sheets
she doesn't write, doesn't tell you stories, but somehow it's her words that spring to mind at those crucial, terrifying moments, and for that you are eternally grateful
She is the queen of accidental magic. Her used kleenexes, taken by the wind, become soulful ghosts.
I got a girl in the war, Paul, her eyes are like champagne
See her talk
You put a hand on her hip, she permits it.
little pieces of her tragically poetic attempts at being loved that she was startlingly aware of, today
Her grief is still too young to behave itself, so she never lets it out
American Pie Presents: Something is Alive in Her Bosom 2
One day I wrote her name upon the strand
She flies with her own wings
She practices her speech
she's so virginal in her bodily extortion
She's got Zelda Fitzgerald mercury in her veins
That week with her was like drinking bubbles
I feel like I don't know her for a moment. It passes.
Now she's in my doorway, accusing me with her soft breasts and long legs, strong hips.
She didn't wave goodbye so much as slightly raise her hand
She is willing to attempt to retrieve the data. Go with her.
She picked herself up, wiping away at her dignity
it was just as if she held her breath for 82 years
I told her the driftwood looked like Spain
Her eyes were gray like a storm, and even more dangerous
The kind who tells you she's bipolar just to make you trust her
When she woke up, her hands were still dreaming
I could tell by all of her dead house plants
She knows no truth except her own.
She's beautiful in ways that make her seem fleeting
I don't remember what her name was so let's call her Doris
Her Body Had Knots and Hollows
The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even
Funny -- she looks much smaller from outside her head
The woman with her legs apart
Lady Daibu And Her Lover
Her Majesty
Making her presence known (Part 3)
I remember when it was me who made her skin flush
Pig on her back
the small of her back
The Old Woman And Her Pig
Meant For Her
her arms around me
I think I've forgiven her
What do I call her?
Making her presence known (part 2)
river, in all his innocent beauty and home in hers
Looking back from time to time, her tears falling fast
right under her surface
I don't want to see her
Someone outlined against the sky, the sun too bright to see her face
I remember when it was me who made her toilet flush
Calling her number and having a male voice answer
Who let her get at the Johnny Walker

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