You took the hangover slot from 10am-12pm on Saturday mornings in your first stint as a college DJ. You were still dating your high school boyfriend who would do nothing but sleep and sleep and sleep until 4pm every weekend with his legs hanging over the Frankenstein bed you made by pushing two twin mattresses together once your roommate had moved to a single room after developing the unfortunate habit of taking her evening dose of anti psychotics during the day. He’d drive two hours from Rhode Island to Massachusetts every Friday, cross Elm Street and smoke cigarettes on the porch of the Victorian house you shared with sixty five other girls. You would fight and fight and fight for no reason other than the two of you were no longer in high school and were eighteen and separated most of the time and were prone to simultaneously pining for and cheating on each other. One morning you left him sleeping next to the radio and climbed the steps of the Davis Center, Nalgene bottle full of coffee and creamer, greeting your weary musical companion. Desk covered in cracked CD cases, she pushed the album with the red cover towards you and mouthed “track six.” WOZQ 91.9FM Northampton. Get me away from here, I’m dying.