Rewind to suite hunting, spring 2013. My suitemates
and I visit our current suite in Saybrook. Being one of the people who was going to live in the suite’s only double, I pop my head in to check out my future room. Not bad; small, but not bad. “Don’t get too excited,” the girl who lives there says. “You can hear everything through the firedoor.”

Camp Yale, 2013. We’re in our new suite. It’s 7:30 a.m., the morning after my birthday, and suddenly, I start hearing strains of P!nk in the air. Am I dreaming? “Blow me one last kiss.” I must be fucking dreaming. The music changes to Avril Lavigne. I sit up. I grab my computer and immediately look on Yale Facebook for the girl who lives adjacent to me. She’s a well-known DJ on campus. I AmazonPrime search for sound studio insulation to glue to the firedoor.

Late Sept. 2013. I occasionally hear strains of what my neighbor is working on—cool remixes, dubstep, occasionally. The unfortunate part is that I hear her new work when I’m trying to get to bed. I pull out my notebook and under “TO DO,” I write: “Walgreens. Earplugs.”

Present day. Over the past two months, I’ve become more used to the situation. Her music is actually really good, when you sit back and listen to it. It makes Top 40 bearable. It’s going right now, actually—I find myself tapping my foot a little. I could imagine dancing to this—maybe at Mistle- toads; maybe at battle of the DJs; maybe at the Jack Wills opening party. I keep a set of earplugs by my bed, but now I mostly use them when my suitemates are watching Scandal and I’m an episode behind. My DJ neighbor and I got off to a rough start. But it turns out buying that sound studio insula- tor was great. Now I know the newest beats before they hit Soundcloud. The newest one is really good. Think “Wrecking Ball,” but with a sort of techno beat under it. Coming to a Spring Fling stage near you next semester.