Jennifer Lawrence is on the cover of Vogue this December, and in it, she says that her bedroom is not the sort of fuck central you imagined it to be in the Jennifer Lawrence fan fiction novel you are writing, tentatively titled ‘Jennifer Lawrence’s Bedroom, How Me And My Dick Turned That Place Into Fuck Central.’
Proustian, your novel is not.
The relevant excerpt from the (excellent, read it!) article comes as the writer, Jonathan Van Meter, is getting a tour of her house.
Glasses of wine in hand, we head upstairs, and when we walk into the enormous master suite she makes a sweeping gesture toward the bed and says, “This is where the maaagic haaaappens.” Then she shoots me a get-real look. “Literally zero magic has happened in here.” She holds up her glass in a toast: “Cheers to my hymen growing back!”
Damn, Jennifer. I know you recently went through a break up and I just want to say I get it, too. I’m in a bit of a slump, as well. So return my texts. Please. Please. Please?
And without sex, has Lawrence fallen into classic single girl tropes? Yep. Instead of going to dinner with the author, she takes off her bra and orders pizza. That’s not a sitcom sketch I’ve seen before.
Suddenly, her phone chimes with the gentle sound of a reminder. Lawrence stares at the screen for a split second and then looks at me. “We have to wrap this up because I have an interview with Jonathan Van Meter.” She laughs. “We blew our dinner reservation. Shall we just stay in and order a pizza?” Sure, I say. “Oh, thank God, I can take off my bra,” which she does right in front of me and then tosses it onto her bed. She texts Talley, trying to find the number of the pizza joint she loves. She orders us a large pie, with pepperoni and jalapeño with ranch dressing on the side (not nearly as bad as it sounds).
No, that sounds fantastic.
I don’t know what the point of this article was. You aren’t going to be the one to break her sex slump. Neither am I.
We aren’t even going to get to eat pizza with her.
All the sad faces.