Dear Drake, 

You were always the older guy I had a crush on. Older, not by a generation, but older like, you could’ve been my brother’s friend. Older in the sense that when you were a teen, I was a kid, and I was nowhere near consideration for you, but I could entertain fantasies of having you as my boyfriend. 

I spent my college years, my early 20s, and even my mid 20s listening to your advice. I was a “Drake girl,” like many other girls. You spoke to my alter ego. I imagined I was that girl: beautiful but mistreated; smart, strong, sexy, who dealt with bullshit from boys who were shallow, boys who were clowns. We were “good girls.” “Good” as in kind, but also, “good” as in quality. Your tracks were our anthems. We sang them, believing in our own confidence. We were girls who challenged, girls who pushed back, girls you’d get emotionally involved with and write songs about. We were girls looking for love–the real thing, though. 

You taught me other lessons, too. It wasn’t all wishes for fairytale romance. From your words, I learned loyalty and friendship. You encouraged me to value something invisible called integrity. And even when I had nothing else–when I was young, lost, broke, single, working a shit job–I could still feel superior, because I had my own version of principles. That’s what you evoked, for all of us. You talked about holding loved ones close, protecting your inner circle, guarding your soul, and those became our mantras. You taught confidence and humility at once. I learned to be humble, enough to see myself objectively, enough to know what others may like or dislike. And confident enough to be indifferent to their opinions. You demonstrated class. You never gave into pettiness. Nastiness, in intention and action, was something that rolled off you and resided at your feet. 

Some people may have been tired of your wins, but you continued to execute with skill, with resonance. 

You were popular, you were mainstream, but who cares? You were likeable.

I spent many lonely drives nodding pensively to your words. Imagining, like you, that my success would one day be the greatest revenge toward anything that made me feel less about myself. I spent many joyful nights with girl friends and liquor, singing along to you, as we dressed ourselves up, secretly in hopes that a stranger would approach us the way you do in your songs. We imagined someone sexy, someone funny, someone assertive, but non-intimidating. Someone who would make love in a way that encouraged us to use our own bodies. Someone who’d go on to write poetry about us. About our appeal, about our desires, about our growing attachment, and ultimately about our growth itself. We would grow to realize self worth, and we would grow tired. Tired of these situations, of loves that weren’t love, of boys who were like you. 

You sing about it all the time. And like a prophecy, you’ve become the story that you tell. You are a Certified Lover Boy, and the generation that grew up with you, we are women now. We have built our lives, full of depth and abundance. And you appear to have stopped growing. What lessons have you learned this last year? The sound of your words have lost their charm. You’re telling old stories, laughing at old jokes, and introducing them as new. You feel recycled. And it’s not me, but you who has changed, because you choose to remain the same. I haven’t stopped loving what you once were. I am still transported by Views, Scorpion, More Life. I still get shudders when I blast Legend while pulling onto the highway. But you, your present self, feels soulless. You’re stuck in immaturity, and you embrace it. Like Peter Pan, but if Peter Pan’s motivation were to fuck. 

You look up to men who’ve held their sexual urges above all else. Men who’ve abused women and children because of tainted desires. Is that the legacy you want?

No, you’re not like them. You are still Drake. 

You’re still fun. I will still hear CLB on the radio, at festivals and events, and in my friends’ apartments. And when I do, I’ll sing along, bop my head, sway side to side, and clink drinks. I will still follow you, keep tabs on what you’re up to, and hope you’re doing well. But I will not help but think that I’ve outgrown you. 

Take care.