Roommate Horror Stories: How To Deal With a DJ Roommate

Marcus seemed like a dream roommate when we met, a DJ building his brand, his energy infectious as we signed the lease for my Chicago loft. I figured he’d be out gigging, maybe sharing wild club stories over coffee. The first week, he tinkered quietly in his room, tweaking tracks on his laptop, the faint hum of beats barely noticeable. Then the music hit like a freight train. Every night, around midnight, bass rattled my walls, not full songs but a 15-second loop, repeated endlessly as he adjusted tempo and pitch. The thud pulsed in my chest, shaking my bedframe, stealing my sleep.

I worked early at a bakery, kneading dough by 5 a.m., so at 1:30 one night, I knocked on his door, bleary-eyed. “Marcus, can you turn it down?” I asked, my voice strained. He apologized, his headphones dangling. “Night’s when the vibes peak, I’ve got a club audition soon,” he said. I admired his hustle, but my sleep was crumbling, my mornings spent nodding off over croissants. He promised headphones, but days later, louder studio monitors arrived, amplifying the chaos. One night, three DJs showed up for a “collab,” their laughter and clinking beers echoing until 4 a.m., the bass a relentless assault on my sanity.

I begged for quiet, my eyes red from exhaustion. “Art needs space!” Marcus declared, as if my sleep was collateral damage. I tried noise-cancelling headphones, but the vibrations seeped through, my walls trembling like a subwoofer. My friends thought I was exaggerating until they visited and couldn’t hear me over the loud music in my own kitchen. I confronted Marcus again, citing lease rules on noise, but he brushed it off, tweaking another loop. Desperate, I checked the lease, finding a clause on excessive noise violations. I gave him a week to move out, my voice firm, backed by the landlord’s number on speed dial. He grumbled about “stifling creativity,” but packed his gear, the turntables and monitors hauled away in a huff.

The silence that followed was heavenly, my loft restored to peace. I slept through the night, my mornings productive, my croissants kneaded without a yawn. Marcus’s departure left the walls still, the air free of bass, and my sanity intact. I learned to prioritize sleep over coolness, vowing never to room with someone whose art drowns out my life. My loft is mine again, a quiet haven where I can hear my own thoughts.