The Day That Drake Found Out Amanda Bynes Wanted Him to “Murder Her Vagina”
5:08 pm, August 8th | by Colette McIntyre
I don’t even know who that is doing that or what that’s about. If that is her, I guess it’s a little weird and disturbing. It’s obviously a behavioral pattern that is way bigger than me. Whoever is behind it, whether it’s her or somebody else, they know people are paying attention so they keep it going. - Drake in XXL magazine on Amanda Bynes’ now infamous tweet.
With the weary sigh of a world plagued with creation, Aubrey rubs his temples and looks at the clock. It’s 6 AM. He has spent another night sitting at his desk, heavy-eyed, googling his own name and that of his exes. He thinks he fell asleep once, briefly, maybe while he waiting for his assistant to bring him a mug of hot cider or during the opening credits of Morning Glory. He toggles between his open windows and finds Rachel McAdams right where he left her: dashing after a besuited Harrison Ford, bangs askew, smile broad, eyes shining like ripe cherries in a cup of vanilla pudding. Cherries in pudding…that’s good. Aubrey scrambles in the debris of his desk, pushing aside Shake Shack receipts and postcards from Wayne, searching for his moleskine. “One ripe cherry in a cup of vanilla pudding/ she’s not prepared for the work I’mma put in/ Love her short ‘do, giving me Gennifer Goodwin/as Wanye says…” The words are just starting to flow when his laptop makes a shrill chirping noise. It’s his Drake Google alert. Someone is talking about him.
He makes a brief call to his kitchen. No sense in opening Pandora’s Box on an empty stomach. As the phone dully bleats into his ear — surely the kitchen staff are awake by now? They know that he is rarely to bed, early to rise — he keeps his eye trained on the computer screen. What could people be saying about Drake? He has been keeping a low-profile ever since his club fight with Chris Brown. Over Her…. Aubrey shakes off the furry, dark feeling that is pawing at his leg. It is too early to start thinking about the past, especially about Her. The phone snaps with the life of another voice and Aubrey orders a croissant, toasted, with an assortment of berries. It is only after hanging up that he notices his one alert has multiplied to over a dozen. “What…how,” he murmurs to himself. He begins to click at random.
The words pile up on his screen and in his mind, undigested, reminding him of the plates of food Spinner would shamelessly heap onto the cafeteria table. “On Amanda Bynes, Who Wants Drake to ‘Murder Her Vagina’” “Amanda Bynes Sends Raunchiest Tweet Yet” “Amanda Bynes — Begs Drake to ‘Murder’ Her Lady Parts on Twitter” None of it makes sense.
A chill suddenly sweeps across Aubrey’s body. He grabs the amorphous blob that has been sitting to the right of his Louis Vuitton-embalmed laptop, haunting his peripheral vision. It’s the angora sweater his grandmother sent to him in a care package last month. He pulls the sweater over his head. It smells of dust and lavender and syrup. Aubrey doesn’t even know who Amanda Bynes is — well, that’s a lie. Of course he knows who she is; child stars tend to know each other. But he doesn’t know who she is, not really. He saw Easy A in movie theaters and thought she was dynamic but he has never ran into her at a party or the thousands of events he attends each year. “Murder her vagina.” What does that even mean? Aubrey is a lover, not a fighter, and he is most certainly a make lover not a…he can’t even bring himself to say the word. A f*%ker. He likes to look a woman in the eyes while he moves on top of her. Sometimes he’ll whisper Sade lyrics in her ear. (Or, let’s be real, he’ll ask her to whisper Sade lyrics in his ear.) Sometimes he cries. Aubrey has never killed anything before, not even a bug — the sight of blood makes him lightheaded, even fake blood. That’s why filming the shooting scene for Degrassi was so difficult for him; the director had to swear, multiple times, that there wouldn’t be any blood on set before Aubrey would agree to leave his trailer.
He notices that there is a small plate next to his elbow. The croissant he asked for is here, slightly steaming. One of the waitstaff must have entered the room without his noticing. Aubrey is no longer hungry but he hates to let things go to waste; he puts the pastry up to his lips but his mouth won’t open. He can’t. Murder her vagina? Crumbs fall onto his white Hermès lounge pants.
Aubrey feels fragile and messy, like marshmallows that have melted in a cup of cocoa. He moves across the room, leaving a wound of Garnier Fructis and lavender in his chair. He draws a lazy finger across the silver-plated wheelchair he keeps in the corner of his office. It’s an exact replica of the one he was stuck in for four years. “I’m the guy who learned how to walk again. I started from this bottom and now I’m here — I don’t murder vaginas,” he thinks to himself. “That’s not who I am.” The metal feels slick to the touch, like ice or a fish after it has been pulled onto a boat. Aubrey realizes that his finger is wet. He looks up at the nearest window to see if it’s raining, to see if water is leaking through the frame, but he’s distracted by his own reflection. He’s crying. Crying the soft, ghostly tears of a little girl lost — or a misunderstood rapper.
With nowhere else to go, Aubrey curls back into his office chair. His cat Aaliyah takes up residence on his lap. Maybe he’ll stay in tonight; maybe he’ll finish Morning Glory and then go to sleep early, in a bed. His bed. He opens his Google calendar, hoping to see a clean white box, an empty day, just this once. Shabbat Dinner with Rabbi Shmuley and Mom. Of course, it’s Shabbat. He closes his laptop slowly. At least that means no Internet tonight; no more nonsense about Amanda Bynes and her vagina. No Internet and no time. Aubrey rests his head in his hands and something that is bigger than him continues to beat on.
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