Chelsea Fagan

Welcome to a very special, polyamorous edition of Husband Material. As you may have already deduced, this volume’s suitors are none other than the sexual-tension riddled duo of X-Men First Class.

Everyone — from Celine to Whitney to Barbara to Frank to Dean — has their own chipper version of every song, and each one is more wonderful than the last. Don’t like this cover of “Winter Wonderland?” Fear not, there exist 103982308432823 others to take its place in your heart.

We need to make our statuses inflammatory, untrue remarks about President Obama. We need to dedicate entire pages of text to quoting a Glenn Greenwald article. We need to be listing incoherent reasons why Ron Paul is going to save our country. And, most of all, we need to be using capslock.

Here, a primer for when your future children want to know what the hell you were doing with your boxy, multicolored electronics.

But then you think, eh, I don’t really feel like dragging myself all the way across town, and besides, I could spend all night Skyping, watching so many stolen movies, and taking pictures of myself drinking out of a big glass of wine. And then you do it, and it’s the most awesome night in recent memory, and your checking account doesn’t look like someone napalmed it the next morning.

I’m pretty convinced now that everything in the fashion world has been “done,” and now the designers are just blindfolding themselves and throwing darts at a chart with different clothing items on it.

Perhaps in a childish, roller-coaster-thrill kind of way we like people who don’t treat us very well, but when we think about who is really worth our time and our love, it is not that kind of person. At least, it shouldn’t be.

I would often be reprimanded for “not pushing hard enough” or being honest about it when a boot a woman was trying on made her look as though she was punishing her upper calf for war crimes. Commission is the devil.

It is well-accepted science that money stops being real at exactly 1 a.m., and it is at that very moment that your trip to the bar for another round becomes an episode of Supermarket Sweep: “GIVE ME ALL OF THEM, ALL OF THE ALCOHOLS. I HAVE A TAB OPEN.”

And whether we’re a walking Adele song who can’t buy an avocado without breaking down in the produce aisle about your ex-boyfriend getting married, or in the throes of the honeymoon phase and constantly referencing how everything pales in comparison to the way your partner’s beautiful hair clogs the sink, we’re all guilty.

He seems like the kind of guy with whom you would have an incredible, 5-hour long conversation over dinner that spilled out into the streets and eventually ended in bed, where his perfect SAT score would not in the least imply a disheartening lack of familiarity with the female form.

Especially when we look around us and see the rough, often devastating ends that young love can meet when it commits too quickly, the idea of acknowledging you met your life partner at 22 is terrifying.

“And I know what you’re thinking: “My friends/bffs/blood sisters/trusted clergy members are different. We would Skype regularly if one of us lived on THE MOON.” I know, I thought so, too.”

Feelings are complex and scary, and they’re just so hard to describe sometimes. And even if we’re not feeling anything particularly poignant, we can have the kind of overwhelming feeling of us-ness that, if we didn’t have handy lyricists at our disposal, we would never be able to express…

Essentially, Zooey’s character (and there is only one) has mild Asperger’s, but because she is very good-looking, people find it charming. The hipsters hate it because it’s co-opting and bastardizing their precious, adorable, alternative style and making it into something fake — but worse than fake, it’s being made accessible.

In case you missed it, we previously addressed all the movies that may have changed your eternally youthful little life — from Song of the South to Ratatouille — over in Part I. Give it a look, and then come back for more, “Oh, I totally forgot about that movie, you guys…”

Nothing conjures in me such a pure, unadulterated feeling of jealousy as when I see a child in a public space being soothed mid-tantrum by a pack of cookies or a soft pretzel. How wonderful, how beautiful, how incredibly worth living life would be if you could just scream and scream and scream, and then someone would just hand you a cupcake to shut you up?

Your Disney film of choice says more than just what VHS was worn to tatters from merciless overuse when you were eight; it says which 1 hour and 30 minutes contained your tiny little dreams. So put on your Tinkerbell costume (you know you still have it), get out your stuffed Boo doll, and settle in for a little trip down One Day My Prince Will Come Lane.