An Ode to DJ’s

Surprise bitch! bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.

Anyways, welcome back, I hope everyone is doing as well as one can during finals season. Let’s be honest though, we are all on the brink of who the fuck knows what. Death? Exhaustion? Insanity? Changing your name and moving to a foreign country where nobody can find you?

That’s beside the point. This, my friends, is a caffeine filled and self-hatred-fueled ode to my one true love, DJ’s On the Hill. There is no bar quite as special as her, because she is MY freshman bar and therefore, she has single-handedly carved an ugly little space for herself into my heart.

For those of you who have been living under a rock, DJ’s is located on Marshall street, the Mecca of life here at Syracuse. There is no better place to be cat-called by a homeless man and eat Chipotle all at the same time. Strategically placed between Acropolis (the other love of my life, but that’s a story for another time) and literally every other deliciously disgusting eatery in Syracuse, it is the metaphorical holy land for every horny, drunk, freshman bitch.

Pro-tip: Make sure to add DJ’s on snapchat for no particular reason, other than the fact that their account is probably run by a gremlin or James Franco’s Character from “Pineapple Express”.

There is no smelly smell that smells quite as smelly as DJ’s. It has the alluring scent of spilled vodka Redbull, vomit, and regret. If DJ’s made a perfume it would be called “sOrRY mOM” and the logo would be an image of some random Becky in Adidas Superstars pulling trig in the door-less, toilet paperless, toilet seat-less bathroom.

Once you’ve gotten past the pungent odor, is when the magic REALLY starts to happen. I have never seen DJ’s in the daylight, but I’m sure it’s comparable to seeing your teacher at the supermarket or watching a dog walk on its hind legs. An unmistakable feeling of painful discomfort, philosophical introspection and awe. If you find yourself in that basement during the day, turn around and run, because I’m pretty sure the only two people that go to DJ’s during the day are Pennywise the clown and the twins from The Shining.

DJ’s at night on the other hand is terrible in its own deeply unsettling yet beautiful way. Imagine this: the lights are flashing, you just paid twenty dollars to listen to somebody named DJ $nak3 Pen1$ play his fourth remix of “Closer” by the Chain Smokers. Your roommate just made out with twenty-seven guys and chugged a pitcher all in about fifteen minutes, you just walked into two people fucking underneath that big ass fan, now you’re sliding on the floor because it’s covered in a half inch of ~something~. You are young, and free, and blackout drunk on a Thursday at 9:30.

Tomorrow, you’ll wake up, claim that you’re never drinking again and then pretend you didn’t suck face with Brett from statistics, who you see every day. The truth is, you do remember Brett’s tongue down your throat and you’re still probably going to chug a water bottle of vodka later that day. But that’s okay, that’s life, and it really do be that way sometimes.

So, to the light of my life DJ’s On the Hill, thanks for the memories I don’t remember.

Love you always bby <3.