10 Reasons Your Friend Dumped You

If you’ve recently lost a friend and you’re not sure why, you probably fall into one or more of the following ten categories.


I get it, your childhood sucked and your high school girlfriend cheated on you. We’ve spoken about it. At length. Many many times. We also talked about your grandpa’s drinking problem and that weird German uncle who spanked when he babysat that one time you were sick so your parents took your sister to see the Lindsay Lohan version of the parent trap. I know all about that mean boss you had and how your landlord dicked you over on your security deposit a few years back. Super familiar stuff. Now please lose my number and go tell somebody else.


I’m really glad you had such a great sandwich for lunch today, so good that it was worth the parking ticket you got while eating it, but my mother passed away this morning. But how would you know that? You stopped asking me about my life… wait, have you ever asked me about my life? Do you even know my last name? Now that I think of it, you don’t even know where I live because we always watch TV at your house and I always pick you up before we go out.


It’s kind of a tough call because really, this shouldn’t be a reason to stop hanging out with someone, but girl, your breath is the worst. And last time you came over and kicked off your sneakers, my ottoman smelled like foot rot for weeks. My cleaning lady asked if the cat pissed on it, I swear. And I would try to find a way to mention these things, I really would, but the open-faced maxi pad in my bathroom trashcan was just the last straw. I mean, I’m willing to let the fact that you wear pads and you are not twelve or a member of some kind of strange religion that thinks inserting a tampon will take away your virginity, but bitch, wrap that thing up in some toilet paper.


I know that 50% of the time I sneak away and give the waitress my card before the bill comes, but you never even do that “pick up your purse and pretend to dig around for your wallet” thing. Ever. And trust me, I don’t need friends with money, but I also don’t need friends who order a half-dozen seventeen dollar Eastern Standards at Soho House (which I pay like, three grand a year to belong to, you fucking asshole) and then “forget” to leave any cash behind when you decide to take off early.


The gold standard of being a shit friend, I know, but it bears repeating. You meet someone who you think is fabulous (even though he’s completely terrible but that’s beside the point), disappear for a year and a half (except for the rare occasions we do hang out and you insist upon bringing him along with us) and once he dumps you (and they always dump you, you’ll hang in there with anyone if you think you’ll get a ring out of it), you’re all, “Let’s hang out and be single ladies together!” First of all, it’s rude to point out that I’m single just because you are and second of all, where do I know you from? Your face looks familiar but I can’t place it. What’s your name again?


Trust me, dude, you know I love to drink. You know I love to drink and get buckwild, but you take drunken buckwildness to a new level. You grabbed my bosses’ dick at the Christmas Party I took you to. When my friend gave us tickets to a listening party for his new record, you knocked over an entire wine rack and didn’t even apologize. But it’s not just when you’re drunk! You have no filter! When we went to that dinner party, you told the host’s husband that his turtleneck made him look like your uncircumcised penis. At game night you announced that you had to take a shit. Your status as “that guy” is turning me into “that girl.”


I should have known when you told me you loved me the second time we met that you were a phony social-climber, but I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. It’s my fault, really. For some reason I assumed that just because you talked shit about all of your other friends behind their backs that I was somehow exempt from your back-stabby ways. In your defense, you are awfully good at what you do. You’ve got it down to a science. I don’t have any recollection of how we even met but sure enough we started texting every day, then hanging out once a week solo before eventually you just became my go-to party friend. That’s when you became “best friends” with my actual best friends and plugging their numbers into your phone then texting them and hanging out with them without me and so on and so on until next thing I knew, I was getting word that you were complaining to our now mutual friends about me. BYE!


I would love to tell you why I can’t hang out with you anymore but I just need you look up from your phone for a second. Thank you. I don’t want to sound like a hypocrite because I’m constantly checking my email too, but—wait, what happened? Did you spill something on your jeans? What kind of stain is it? I have a Tide Pen in my pur—Oh my God, could I not get through one sentence without you looking at your phone? Fuck this.


Look, it’s not something I can even really put my finger on, but there’s just something a little bit off about you. Maybe it’s your energy or something, I don’t know, but you sorta creep me out, man. For awhile I wondered if maybe you were hiding a drug problem or if you just took awhile to get comfortable with new people or what but I’ve come to realize that you give me the willies and there’s nothing you or I can do to change that. Don’t take it personally, I’m sure there are some people out there who aren’t freaked out by your overall vibe, but I sense you have committed murder or will in the future and I can’t have that in my life.


Oh my God, do you honestly think that people can’t tell you’ve Photoshopped the age lines out of your Instagram selfies? Do you actual think that if you have age lines, you should be on Instagram or taking selfies? And what’s with the weird, dramatic Tweets lately? You understand that Twitter is a website where you’re supposed to drop of 140 character messages, not air your grievances about your boyfriend not calling you back. And look, I love a subtweet, but babe? Half the people you know are screenshotting your latest “subtle attack” and talking about how mentally ill you are. And I’m glad that you mentioned that the celebrity in the last photo you posted is your friend because that means you still have one left. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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Molly McAleer lives in Los Angeles with her chihuahua and can be found on Twitter (@molls) and on Instagram (@itsmolls). Her writing has appeared on your television, your Internet and the bathroom walls of your favorite cyber cafes.

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