1. It’s yoooooooooours.
Song: Wu Tang Forever
this is a continuation on a theme. i believe sincerely that drake listens to the best contemporary albums of his peers and takes meticulous notes. one such oeuvre, worth a hundred listens if it’s worth one, is miguel’s Kaleidoscope Dream, which features a brilliant song titled “P*ssy Is Mine.” the song playfully celebrates owning (or leasing) a good piece of trim, crooning:
Tell me, tell me baby, that its all mine
Tell me that that pussy is mine, ooo
Cause I don’t wanna believe that anyone
Is just like me..
it’s an amazing concept, mainly for the fact that it’s completely true that every man wants to be told “it’s yoooooours…” whether or not there is a seed of truth to this well-placed moan. every woman, by extension, knows this and pulls that card for one out of every 7 or so men who’s hittin’ it right and doing his job to better-than-average standards. drake, being famous, probably hears this no matter what he’s doing but that’s rather immaterial in this case. he’s acknowledging that feeling we’ve all, at some point, wanted to have…that we’re special, that no one could possibly Mr. Marcus the p*ssy like we did that one time.
i could count on two hands the times i’ve heard this from bedroom-entranced Slim Goodies. the same ones who would do the 2Pac-camera-spit if they saw me in the streets now. the point being, the value of this statement diminishes exponentially outside of the moment it occurs. nevertheless, it feels so sweet that it might just block out the memory of that bold face-spit that happened on the corner of Halsey and Lewis six years ago.
kudos to the married bruhs out there for whom this statement is 90%-95% accurate (depending on your wife, of course). the real shout-out goes to the bachelor veterans out here who have spent months — hell, years — chasing that “it’s yoooours” from various playmates, jumpoffs and main thangs. when that cold half-eaten chicken-and-broccoli container is staring up at you from your living room floor, daring you to gulp the last few spoons full of brackish grease and wilted fibrous mush, remember that Drizzy Drake relished the same melancholy victories we did. and don’t worry; we can thank him later.