[ WP ] You are the radio alarm of a really nervous person , living in the constant fear of being smashed . You do everything possible ( with your radio alarm capabilities ) to stay alive .

I did n't think twice when the newbie asked me. 
 
 `` Single workaholic with a sleep disorder? I mean, this has to be a mistake!'' 
 
 I sighed, more loudly than necessary. I was actually mildly annoyed. I would take no pleasure in leaving my current post - a pair of uncommonly gentle 4-year old twins. Every morning I chose a different Disney classic and they crowed in delight so genuine that I could n't help but mourn their coming loss of innocence. Adult humans ca n't help but let their narcissism suck all the joy out of waking. 
 
 For the most part though, I relished my role as the veteran. The most experienced and accomplished among us and yet I had n't been put out to pasture like so many before me. They called me in when the rookies, with all their internet-age bells and whistles, got scared off by an actual challenge. Do you know what it's like to wake someone up who's on Ambien? How about a sleepwalker? When the fancy, Sharper Image clocks burned out, I came to the rescue. And I did n't leave until the job was done. There was no client whose sleep habits I could n't stabilize. 
 
 So when the infant with 25 different varieties of ocean sounds whined to me, I knew what my answer was. But that did n't mean I would n't make him sweat. 
 
 `` How do you expect us to compete with smart phones if you can not wake up one 37-year-old insomniac? I can send you back to bootcamp anytime...'' 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 
 Every wire within me stiffens as I hear her groan from down the hall. She's in a bad mood. 
 
 **Thud.... thud... THUD... ** 
 
 I feel weak. The orange light from my digital display starts to flicker. *Damn it, man - nut up! * If she thinks for a second that there's a reason too, she'll take pleasure in snapping me in half before she tosses me in the dumpster. 
 
 In three months I have gone from the best in my fleet to near-defector. Duty. It used to define me. Now I'm terrified that it will chain me to this lunatic just long enough to kill me. 
 
 *Creak. * The door swings open. She's wasted. 
 
 I flee to a higher plane of consciousness, focus on staying entirely still. But I ca n't help but watch. She's a reedy woman and her spindly legs stab at the ground awkwardly as she struggles to remove her underwear. As she collapses to the ground, the hardwood vibrates. She pulls a flip cell phone from a balled-up pair of corduroys, then digs deeper and retrieves half of a cigarette. One shaky hand struggles with a lighter as the other snaps the phone open. She sucks in deeply on the lit cigarette and her eyes widen. 
 
 Shit. It must be the ex. 
 
 A sinewy arm rockets up and out. The phone shatters against the wall but all I can hear is an all-consuming shriek that expands until it fills the room. 
 
 The last time that her ex came over, I did n't know better than to take pity on her. I lulled her to sleep with melancholic classics then filled her dreams with soulful heroines who belted their vengeance. Aretha. Beyonce. Somehow I still believed that with a few well-chosen anthems I could re-wire her sense of self. But halfway through my favorite Ella Fitzgerald she woke up in a rage. She battered me until I knew I must be gone, circuits smashed and dying out. But then, a sound. The final notes of the song that I used to love, warbling through my half-crushed speaker. 
 
 Something died within me that night. I still do the dance every night, switching between soft orchestral movements, meandering smooth jazz, shitty pop/rock. I do whatever I can to keep her asleep and relatively calm. In the morning I wake her gently. Try to read her every whim. But 8 out of 10 days, I have barely lulled her from sleep when she assaults me into a half-conscious silence. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 She's in bed now and a waft of cigarette smoke invades every crevice in my plastic shell. She turns a glassy glare at my display. She's angrily stabbing at the buttons on either side of me. There's no need, the default alarm is set, but, even in an alcoholic stupor, her neuroses know with certainty that I'm not fit for duty. I used to be insulted. Now I ca n't seem to care about anything but survival. 
 
 She's shifting my dials somewhere new, her stubby fingers roughly gripping me as I struggle to keep the sound quality clear. Suddenly she stops. *Wait, why are we in AM? She never listens to AM... * 
 
 `` Ruuuuushh....'' the first word that I can make out is elongated in an obnoxious tone that can only mean one thing - shitty talk radio. 
 
 Oh no. This is too much. I'm a union man. If there's one thing worse than being tortured by your worst enemy, it's being forced to listen to that worst enemy affirm Rush Limbaugh's rantings while she does it. 
 
 Any dedication to duty evaporates in that instant. I focus all my attention on holding in every ounce of energy for one second, then two, until 10 seconds have passed and she notices Rush's cackle fading away. 
 
 
 `` Piece of shit!!!!'' 
 
 She lunges, her glass of gin spilling from her hands, and in that instant I unleash every electron in a vengeful spark that flares up wider than I'd dreamed possible. In one beautiful flash I see her eyes widen in horror as her body seizes in electrical shock. I'm fading fast now, barely aware, but not until she collapses do I give in. Blissfully, the final sparks that fly across my circuits summon this realization - I did my duty. It just was n't what they said it would be.
