Dear Summer: An Open Letter to Kanye West About G.O.O.D. Music

Dear Yeezy, Kanye, Ye, Mr. West, Grand Vizier Maestro Kanye Omari Yahweh West: The First ,

How long has it been, brah? Was it that beluga pancake breakfast at the Gucci Store on Rue du Faubourg this Spring? You and Kim looked like you were having the best time explaining Chicago’s drill scene to Anna Wintour. She’s definitely got bandz, but I thought the news crew outside was a bit excessive. Still, we balled till we were full. It was a glorious morning.

Good news: I finally got the chance to listen to the download of Cruel Summer you sent me. It was totally unnecessary to include that secret program that sprinkled a flourish of gold dust when I unzipped it, but if there’s one thing I know about you, you will always walk the extra mile in your $6,000 Jimmy Choo shoes (don’t worry I won’t tell anybody about that one time).

Let’s start with the good. Whenever I listen to “Mercy” on my Beats by Dre headphones while doing kegel exercises in front of my floor-length Murakami mirror, it provides the same rush that it did when I was cruising Rodeo Drive in my Mayonnaise-colored coupe and asking people if they’d seen my friend Molly. It was this year’s summer jam and I saw at least six girls named Kaitlyn twerk to it. Mission accomplished.

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