A Heartfelt Letter From Rihanna’s Bottom To Drake

Amazon / Drake, Take Care
Amazon / Drake, Take Care

Dear Drake,

Good morning, I hope you’ve lint-rolled your pants and licked your lips and did that double over laugh thing enough to get you sufficiently Drake’d to go out and face the day. As well, for breakfast, I hope you’ve had lobster in Miami then a bagel in New York then 12% Canadian milk or whatever it is people drink there. Though most of all, I hope you’re doing okay, emotionally.

It’s been weeks – months maybe – and I can’t imagine how it must be. I don’t even like waiting the hours it sometimes takes until Rihanna will turn in front of a mirror. I remember each night you would lay your head on your silk pillow and sing lullabies to yourself and lotion your entire body. But now? Now how much more lotion must you use without me? Entire tubs? Perhaps, though whatever industrial-sized barrels you’re using, I know you must ache without my pert loveliness to squeeze. That must be hard. Well, no, I mean, it’s probably not “hard.” Just, you know, I understand.

Look at me, talking like some mumblecore director. I’m no Mark Duplass. I am Rihanna’s ass, and I am awesome. I don’t mind saying it either. I am. I can make a man do crazy things. And though you’re not crazy, I’m afraid you are full of shit. Which is kinda the problem.

You see, Aubrey, you’re a smooth-talking Canadian. The type of guy who likes to sing about how special women are so he can bed them and never call them again, then after that write a song about how amazing that night was, when, really, it’s just another song to trick the next girl into believing you’re deep and sensitive, which we both know you are not.

All you want is me, and that’s fine enough. I am round and beautiful and I want me, and I’m me. But you should know that me and Riri see through your act. We know you’re not a moma’s boy with frightening anger issues because of a small penis like my Michael Jackson wannabe, but your sensitive routine, pretending to be the opposite of him, is just as bad – at least to the heart – because all you really want is as many butts as possible.

And that makes you as untenable as the bad boys, the ones I would never be seen alongside in a string on a beach in the Barbados. Which, by the way, you should know, is uncomfortable. I mean, I look good, as I am always somehow buoyant and athletic without playing sports, still, it doesn’t feel good.

Anyway, by now I’m sure you’ve seen me in that crystal dress. And that’s part of why I’ve written you this morning. I get the feeling, by your emo texts, that when you saw me in it you thought I wore it for you. That I was showing out to make you jealous. But that’s not right, and I fear you will never understand why.

Thing is, Jimmy, I don’t need you to tell me how beautiful and strong and powerful I am. I have over 35 million Twitter followers, they can do that for me. Goodness, boy, how many do you have again?

Sorry, that’s a low-blow. I didn’t mean to come here to start a fight. I know something as banging as me has even started wars, and I want to be done with that. I like making love. I know I said I only wanted it rough, but I liked it when you treated me tenderly. In those moments when you had your face by me and I clamped down on your nose and you started crying, I was taken. I know sometimes Riri got annoyed and told you to stop acting like a “little bitch,” but I didn’t mind. I really believed you worshiped me, that I was the only one you would break the Ten Commandments for.

Those times are what keep me going. The belief that you and I will someday be reunited. It lives in the subcutaneous part of me, where the hearty muscle keeps me so aloft, like two apples pressing up against each other in the most impossible game of fruit pressing. You dream of that, I know it. I can almost taste your tears, swallowing them up where I am completely shorn of course. And no I didn’t do that for you either, but I would. Which is what I want you to understand, I would.

I miss you, Aubz. I hate saying it but I do. I miss the way you would laugh at one of your own jokes then croon about a girl who dumped you in the third grade then hold me as you told us where you started from again. I want to tell you that never gets old.

So what do you say, come back. I can be your companion through life, and never we will wane or sag again.

Love always,
Rihanna’s butt. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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