Dear Drake,

I love your music. I really do. It’s fun, it’s catchy, and it’s versatile, equally suited for crazy nights going out and sad nights staying in. I think you’re really talented, and you have more than earned the massive success you’ve achieved.

But I have a problem with your lyrics.

I’m not the only one – countless think pieces have been written about your problematic views on women, whether you’re enforcing the “good girl” narrative or slut shaming countless women While I agree with these accusations wholeheartedly, I have a different issue.

Drake, would you please stop writing songs about me?

Look, I get it: The three years we dated were the best time of your life. If we’re being honest, it was your peak. And when I ended things, it was hard for both of us. But I’m not cool with you airing all our dirty laundry in your songs.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew what I was getting into when we first got involved. I remember when we first met at King of Diamonds, your favorite strip club in Chicago. I was working a late shift, doing my thing (serving mac and cheese at the buffet), when I noticed a gawky nerd in oversized sweatpants shuffling up to the counter. “Excuse me, could I have some max and cheebs?” I thought your mispronunciation was charming, so I gave you an extra-big helping. (Less charming was your extremely visible boner. Drake, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, but please stop wearing sweatpants if you’re going to walk around fully erect at all times. Everyone can see it.)

“This max and cheebs is the best I’ve ever had,” you mumbled, and I thought that would be the end of our interaction. But the next week you put out “Best I Ever Had,” the first of many songs inspired by our burgeoning relationship.

Over the next few years, it seemed like everything I did inspired a new song. When I ran lights for my school’s spring play, you wrote “Crew Love.” When I told you how many musical projects Dave Grohl has been involved with, you wrote “10 Bands.” And when you peed your pants at Coachella so I had to drive you back to your house to change and you were complaining about having to sit in your own urine, I told you, “Just hold on, Drake, we’re going home now.” Well, you know how that one turned out.

When we were dating, this was kind of flattering. But eventually, I grew tired of having to take care of you. (“Take Care” – another song I inspired!) I was sick of cleaning juice off your turtlenecks, explaining that Canada Dry wasn’t made from the blood of Canadians, and telling you to cover your boner when you’re accepting a Grammy.

So I ended things. And that’s when “Hotline Bling” happened.

I don’t even know where to start. First of all, I was “wearing less and going out more” because it was summer. Not because we broke up, but because it was finally nice outside and I was excited to wear shorts. Secondly, those “girls [you’ve] never seen before” were my aunts. We got dinner and saw "Ant-Man!" It was nice! There is literally no reason for you to have been there!

But what really bugs me is that you feel entitled to lecture me about my life after we broke up A YEAR AGO. Move on, Drake! Go watch Rihanna dance or something! Leave me alone!

I hope this letter makes you reconsider your actions and stop writing songs about exes who have no way to defend themselves, because it’s really messed up.

Also, please give my pet owl Quincy back. I miss him so much.

Love,

Julian “Courtney from Peachtree” Axelrod