In the opening line of Titles Ruin Everything, Drake’s latest exercise in petulant score-settling, the superstar admits, somewhat grudgingly, “I actually do have good things to say about you—just not this book.” The “you,” as always, is unspecified and implied—perhaps an estranged love interest, an ally-turned-hater, an umpteenth villain in his sprawling, self-made cinematic universe. He is his own kingdom’s despotic emperor, and in this slight book of poetry, infractions ranging from unanswered texts to full-blown beefs are punishable by constant, torturous negging. It reads like a test run for a line of fuckboy Hallmark cards.

Drake’s relationship with his audience, especially those harder to please, has become a lot like the relationships he portrays with various women: more rooted in an ongoing push-and-pull than a consistent product, be it steamy romance, genuine vulnerability, or concrete catharsis. Even when he misses, the promise—spoken or unspoken—is that he will be back, and the exchange will be better.

Titles Ruin Everything is the newest phase of this ongoing game between master entertainer and eagerly entertained. The paperback’s full title touts it as a “Stream of Consciousness” created alongside longtime collaborator Kenza Samir. And the book includes a QR code leading to the announcement of a corresponding album that quotes Drake’s own 2011 hit “Headlines”: “They say they miss the old Drake girl don’t tempt me/FOR ALL THE DOGS.” If Titles Ruin Everything is any indication of what the album may hold, it’s telling for it to begin with an admission of inadequacy, that all of those “good things” he has to say are “just not this book.” It’s a tale we’ve grown accustomed to—Drake is still capable of profundity, but if we want to hear it, we’ll have to wait until next time.

Photo courtesy of Phaidon

Titles Ruin Everything is 168 pages long. On each of those pages, save for a few blanks scattered throughout, there is a half-baked half-joke about celebrity, riches, or relationships. Most pages contain only one line. Sometimes, two side-by-side pages work in tandem to form a semi-compelling thought (“My therapist told me I need to stop listening to what people tell me/but if I take her advice wouldn’t I be listening to what people tell me?”). Other thoughts are, well, less compelling (“There are two types of women in this world,/women who like giving head and women who I don’t like”), or not compelling at all (“Dead serious/till I die”).

At some point in the book, Drake scoffs, “Their insecurities are the main reason why I increase my security.” It’s clever wordplay, but for a majority of his literary debut, it’s difficult not to notice that he comes off as quite insecure himself. It takes insecurity to need security; it takes insecurity to fester in toxic relationships; it takes insecurity to write a whole-ass poetry book about why it’s everyone else’s fault.

A few pages away, he complains of his “helping hand getting numb & my visions/going blurry from looking out for everyone.” But, in a way that can be both funny and pitiful, it often feels less like he’s looking out for everyone, and more like he’s looking out at everyone. He’s still a tiny speck in his high-up castle, watching old flames (and enemies) have fun—a la Squidward—while he seethes about transgressions they have likely forgotten. He yells his pained platitudes out from his lonely perch, but he is too high up for anyone to hear him.

Like his lyrics, Drake’s poetry often feels like one long Instagram caption, the kind best wielded by spiteful losers of long-fought IDGAF wars. A major facet of his endurance has been his willingness to lean into social media dramatics, rather than let his accolades do the talking. Just last year, he went as far as to follow a negative commenter’s wife on Instagram, citing that “she’s prob miserable and needs some excitement in her life.” The drama-king schtick effectively serves as an extension of his artistry: When he dunks on a rival, picks a fight with a naysayer, or talks shit to any bystander willing to listen, part of it feels like vain performance, but another part of it feels like he’s—somewhat respectably—committed to the bit. Although his gimmick is a superiority complex, he doesn’t consider himself superior enough to be above an argument, no matter how low-stakes or stupid.

But seeing Drake clap back at someone online is a teeny bit more tolerable than seeing it in a book that costs money. Everything in Titles Ruin Everything could have functioned as an Instagram caption, a tweet, a lyric, or, perhaps best of all, a fleeting, unshared thought. For him to get a publishing deal and curry profit for the same-old snipes and jabs feels less like he’s committed to the bit and more like he isn’t even sure what the bit is anymore.

“I don’t know if I have ever wanted people to buy or support something more in my life,” he wrote in an Instagram caption announcing the book. The statement feels earnest in the same way much of his recent music does: This time, like the last few times, he doesn’t care as much about the product as how far we’d be willing to go to validate it. But when he tells “you” that he has nothing good to say in this book, he means it; as you flip through the pages in search for something meaningful, it is “you” he is laughing at.

When a musician of Drake’s stature publishes a work of literature, it often comes across as something they are taking seriously, and want you to take seriously, too. Removed from distractions like earworm production, beefy dramatics, and the maintenance of musical legacy, their words exist on blank pages with few options but to be genuine—whether because they’re true, or because they’re rooted in feelings that are. The thing about Titles Ruin Everything, and the paranoid hip-hop despot behind it, is that as real as these sentiments may be, they aren’t really that interesting unless your name is Aubrey Graham. Much like his recent music, there are two ways you can read this book: with disappointment, or with the tentative, half-smiling nods of someone who cannot relate, but would love to pretend they can. In a recent TikTok video, an ecstatic DJ Khaled read from its pages, wide-eyed. “The minute you think you figured out the boy, the man writes a book,” he said, leaning forward on his couch. If Titles Ruin Everything is proof of anything, though, it’s that Drake may not even be interested in figuring out himself.