Drake Is On Tinder And I Don’t Know What To Do: Should I Swipe Right?

 Take Care  If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late

Take Care
If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late

I have a problem: Drake is on Tinder and I don’t know what to do. I know this seems crazy, given the facts: Drake is a chart-topping artist and notoriously charming dude, and a mere mortal who’s been touched by Rihanna. Like, Rihanna’s liquid, magical, witchcraft-perfected flesh has touched his—albeit moisturized and cared for and expensive, I’m sure—regular human trash skin. Dust is made of human trash skin, shed all over our own homes so that we have to clean up after ourselves, literally. Isn’t that the ultimate irony in this life? That our flesh is constantly dying and getting gross everywhere and we have to clean it up until we reach the Drake wealth status of hiring someone else to clean it up?

Sorry, went a little Drake there with the musing on the human condition. But that’s my problem: can a Drake-type female really swipe right for Drake himself? Like, would we be compatible at all? Could it ever…be?

Have you ever imagined yourself with Drake? Like, not in the context of hooking up with Drake just to say you did it. Forget that for a second. Forget Drake’s celebrity status and the fact that he has come in contact with the holy grail that is Rihanna’s transformative earthly, physical form. (As difficult as it is to forget, given the indisputable fact that Rihanna is an oracle and a saint and if you touch her skin you are blessed and sent to a heaven where everyone bathes in coconut oil and gold and it’s like the ‘Pour it Up’ video but with a beach and mountains, in case you miss the outdoors or whatever.)

Sorry, went a little Drake there with the Rihanna-obsessing of it all. Anyway: have you ever imagined yourself with Drake, for real? Like sitting on the couch in Calabasas with Drake on a Sunday, just watching ESPN and eating buffalo wings and kale salads—Drake counterbalances his cheat days with proper nutritional endeavors—and talking about your week.

Like, you’re just sitting there talking about your group text with your girls, how Britt keeps sending selfies at work and it’s annoying but you get it because her job is boring and depressing, or how everyone is low key annoyed with Sasha because she only messages the group text when she needs something but you get it because you hate keeping up with the group text, in all honesty.

And Drake is like, “same.” And you know he means it. You listen. OB O’brien can be chatty as hell in the group text with the memes and the weed asks: “he knows what type of kush we want, yet he goes on and on about the new kush he just got, like it’s a question. Like he needs the approval, miss me with that shit.” You nod. You wish that your friends would have more chill, and you know he wishes the same. In that moment, you are so happy to just be chill with him, you know? Just content to sit and do nothing. To have one go-to kush.

But fuck being on some chill shit, right?

Like, if I swipe right for Drake, I feel like we will always be on some chill shit. I feel like we will never leave that chill space. I feel like he will, and he’ll go to the club, and I’ll be cool with it, honestly, because I hate the club—but maybe I want to be on his arm, you know? But he can’t be public like that. And I’d be cool with waiting but then he’d get upset with himself and call me ten times at 4AM and I’d call him back but it would go to voicemail and then that voicemail would be the opener of his next mixtape, which would be tight as hell.

But I don’t wanna be a couch girlfriend.

I want to be a chaise lounge girlfriend, like reclined on silk charmeuse, like as close to being holy trinity that is Rihanna, Robyn Fenty, and that baby that she keeps posting everywhere who is the female Jesus, right? Has to be.

Anyway, I wanna have each other on lock without having to unlock each other’s iPhones because we’re suspicious as hell. And Drake is mad suspicious of everyone, let’s be honest—he has reason to be. We could all be working for Birdman.

Drake wouldn’t be on Tinder if he wasn’t looking for something real. Drake is the type to delete Tinder because he’s not finding the real ones, the ones his Mom wants to set him up with, the cute ones at the gym. Drake is the type to download Tinder again and have his mom operating the app for him because he wants to appease her but somewhere in the deep reaches of his mind he hopes that she’s out there, that there’s a shiksa Tindering away, just passing through Calabasas, just age-appropriate and un-Kylie enough for him to stop and whisper: “it’s a match.”

I just can’t handle this kind of pressure. I think I have to swipe left.

Fuck it, I’m swiping right. I might get to meet Rihanna. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

For more about my serious relationship with Drake, follow me on Facebook:

Crissy is a writer living and lol’ing in Los Angeles. She’s on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, for better or worse.

Keep up with Crissy on Twitter and frizzyfilazzo.tumblr.com

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