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It is the living meme and October's Very Own, His Royal Canuck Aubrey Drake Graham's 29th birthday. Although I regularly imagine what it would be like to be Drake's wifey (low key), I unfortunately don't have the star power nor the musical fame to be featured on his Instagram — anyone want to start a band?
Whatever Drake plans on doing for his birthday will be spectacular, but we'll never know the full extent of his celebrations. In the hope of making millions like famed Twilight fanfiction writer, E.L. James, here is a short fanfiction about me and Drake celebrating his iconic and important 29 years on this planet:
Tonight, my very good friend, Drake, is throwing a house party at one of his two properties that he has $30 million CAD's worth of mortgages on. I advised him against spending so much money he doesn't have in cash on property, but he had already bragged about it on If You're Reading This, It's Too Late's "Energy."
"Oh, Drake. You silly willy," I texted.
As Jay Z famously pointed out on Kanye West's "So Appalled," $30 million was just enough money to bankrupt MC Hammer, but Drake knows he's much better than The Ham Ham — this is what we call MC Hammer in the music industry's posse.
Anyway, I meet with Drake for a coffee at Tim Horton's. I don't like Timmies very much as it's weak, and even McDonald's coffee tastes better, but it's illegal to insult it in Canada. Drake's favorite drink is a Double Double with a pump of vanilla, but I opt for tap water and tell him I am going on a cleanse. Anyone will believe an Afghan and Indian person like me when they start talking about vaguely spiritual things.
Drake tells me he was worried about people not thinking his birthday would be cool enough to Instagram. I tell him to relax, even though the Blue Jays-themed balloons, bunting, and streamers made the venue look like a 4th of July celebration. I never like to make Drake feel bad, because I like receiving free OVO merchandise, and he his my very good friend, as stated at the beginning of this fanfiction.
I am the "event coordinator" for the party, and I don't have a damn clue what I'm doing. I have to shake up bottles of Krüg every hour, on the hour, and spray them on guests. They will be pissed off, but they also have to sign a contract on entry that states they can't sue me for ruining their Christopher Kane getups. Drake looks after his friends well.
It is now 11PM. The party is completely empty. No one showed up because there was a surprise Jays game on — they're playing against famous Canadian darlings Anne Murray, Ron Sexsmith, and The Kids in the Hall, so it can't be missed. Drake tries to hide his tears me as he sat on the stage, and I stood at the door with a bottle of champagne in hand
I walk over to him as my heart is aching too. I hate to see Drake upset, and I don't want to have to drink Krüg for the next five years. He looks at me with a piercing pain in his eyes and says "I thought it was going to be the event of the year."
"I know, but don't you think it already is?"
"What do you mean?" asks Aubrey.
"Well, we have a whole club to ourselves and an unfinished game of British Monopoly!"
We played Monopoly and I acquired Park Lane and Mayfair, much to Drake's dismay, so he spent the rest of the evening crying to Céline Dion's Greatest Hits while I fed him chocolate owl-shaped cake.
I am a great friend.