In the game of fuck-marry-kill, Paul Rudd presents a conundrum. Not with the killing, obviously—that’s out. But when it comes to fuck-marry, suddenly it’s an impossible choice. My brain splits in two when I look at him; the one side fading into a shadowy vignette of hair pulling and rumpled sheets, the other imagining how cute his babies would be, and how he would surprise me by serving me waffles with whipped cream in bed on a Sunday morning. Do I really have to choose?