2004-04-30 - 1:09 a.m.

My alarm clock betrayed me this morning.

It was, in fact, the last person I thought would go and turn cold on me. The Sancho Panza to my Don Quitoe; a, now eight year old Sony Dreamstation, fully rigged with a sizable snooze button, adjustable volume, and both, mind you both, AM and FM radio.

Living in Brooklyn, the sound of methodical beeping does nothing to break my slumber...what with my nightly lulliby consisting of at least five car alarms going off simultaneously. (I can't spell. This will soon be fully realized.) It seems only the shrill shreeking voice of Howard Stern can cull me from my slumber. On a daily basis, sometime between seven and eight in the morning, his catcalls to the FCC drift into my dreams, and turn me to reality.

This morning, however, I woke to silence. Despite being set promptly for seven twenty three...AM. (I've made that mistake before.) Despite being in position for radio ready wake up call. Despite a pleading look before I passed out.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I roll over at nine o'eight.

I know somehow, I am to blame. Somehow, I did not set it correctly, or maybe slapped it off in a half-concious stupor. And Yet...

"You mother-fucking piece of shit."

It's always its fault.

"I ask you to do one thing."

Maybe I slapped the snooze to angrily one day.

"Just one thing."

Maybe it got tired of waking me up every twenty minutes on those morning where the sun was about as welcome as a rendition of "Fever" sung by Gilber Godfrey.

"Can't I count on you for anything?"

I don't know why, but it betrayed me. And things in my apartment will never be the same.

Cut and washed in the span of five minutes, I am clad in whatever clothes a desperate grab into my wardrobe can gather. My carrier bag slung over my shoulder, I stop at the door.

I know it's my fault, but I can't help but glour in its direction.

"When I get home, we are going to have a little talk."

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