The following is probably a work of fiction.
It is Jennifer Lawrence’s birthday. National holiday. I knew that Jennifer Lawrence would love me right from the get-go. Now, don’t call this a coincidence, because you’re jealous. The first time, I swear the first time I saw The Hunger Games she winked at me. Right at me! This isn’t an optical illusion. Right as she is climbing into that little pod-tube thing to writhe about for a tepid forty minutes in a death match, she winked.
It stunk of sadness and hunger.
I knew that more than anything, at that point, she needed me. So I started writing her letters. Sweet, beautiful letters. Promising her that no matter how many times she wanted me to drive her to Arby’s, I would. I’m good like that. Get this! I also fucking love roast beef melted and shit with toast or whatever. I would do it. No matter how often she farted-stained her panties, I’d still love them. No, I’m not sniffing them. Yes, okay, I’m sniffing them. She is pungent and I love her.
She never responded. Something had to be done. Something was wrong.
I think the first time the clone I made of her came to life, it was a Friday evening. I had just gotten through with my ritual of shitting my pants while watching Family Ties (He Demands It) and was preparing to take a shower. For some reason, I was feeling less than fulfilled. I decided to sit on the floor shotgunning Tequila and Diet Mountain Dew. I staggered, my crap-covered hands marring the beautiful porcelain floor. The head went down next, and I sat somewhat lumpy upon the floor.
Leering out of a haze of alcohol and scataological wish attainment, I saw her crawling along the floor. Yes!, Jennifer. Yes, yes! I proclaimed. Awkwardly, she dragged her body across the floor. It was misty in the room, but goddamn did she look beautiful. Do you know how many hours I had spent since The Hunger Games forging her? In the darkness of night? The tightest of spaces?
Do you know how many rotisserie chickens you have to eat until you have enough chicken bones to construct the replica of a human skeleton? But by god, it was worth it. Do you know how much butter and plaster you have to slather on to chicken bones to give the finest of female forms a chicken bone-butter-plaster analog? But by god, it was worth it. Do you know how many times the fucking printer didn’t work, and I had to throw out yet another sheet of paper with her face on it? Dad yelling, saying I was using all the ink. Dad yelling, asking me what I was printing. Me, having to box his fucking ears, hammer fist him until he laid still. Me, at that moment noticing his hair would look perfect on the clone. The sound of the electric razor. The screaming. The police.
But by god, it was worth it.
Happy birthday, Jennifer Lawrence.