Don't Call Me Marge: 50 Reasons You’re Still in the Friend Zone (Happy Valentine's Day!)

There’s been a lot of friend zone talk in the air lately, what with the unjust suppression of the Tumblr Nice Guys of OkCupid, and with the prevalence of asinine bloggers stupidly telling people that there is a way out of the friend zone, once there. Hint: There isn’t. Or if there is, it definitely involves some pretty heavy-duty self-work and maybe even fundamental changes to one or both of your lives, so no, it isn’t just a matter of hanging around until the friend-crush in question gets desperate. You shouldn’t be dating someone who’s just with you out of desperation anyway, let me tell you, that kind of thing hardly ever goes well.

Christina already covered all of the best reasons, which is kind of a gyp because this whole post was my idea. I had to talk her into it though because she was all like, “FIFTY? That’s a lot!” and I was like, “Don’t worry about it, just make a bunch of them about facial hair.” So, here you go:

You have a mustache.
You have a soul patch.
Your mustache grows down over your lip. For fuck’s sake.
You have some other form of douchetastic, fancy man-scaped form of facial hair.
You don’t understand that people say “Let’s just be friends” to spare your feelings, not because they actually want to be your friend.
You have a wallet with Super Mario on it, and every time you pay for something, you sing the Super Mario theme song under your breath.
Your friends say the reason you’re single is that you’re too nice.
You’re too clingy.
You’re supposed to kiss your boss’s ass, not your date’s.
You send more than two texts in a row without getting a response.
You need to wash your hair. Seriously. There is no way you should be waiting for a woman to come along and tell you when to wash your hair. Dude. Figure it out.
You stay home every night and only ever hang out with the same five people and wonder why you never meet anyone.
You were born in the same decade as your friend-crush’s parents.
You haven’t had a job in a while. Like a couple of years.
You wear a top hat and you’re not like, going to a wedding or something.
You never put your clothes in the dryer because you figure you can wear them dry.
You refuse to try anything different to meet new people, even when the things you’ve been doing for years aren’t working out.
You want to go out with your friend-crush, but you’re not about to do something radical like actually ask them.
You say stupid shit on first dates, like “I don’t believe that if two people are dating for six months and one person wants to end it, that they should be allowed to end it just because they want to.”
You talk about your previous relationships on first dates.
Your idea of a great first date is Long John Silver’s.
Your idea of a great first date is sitting in the park for two hours, under a gazebo because it’s raining, until it gets dark, even though your date doesn’t have a jacket and is visibly shivering.
You didn’t offer your jacket to your date when she was visibly shivering, you cunt.
When you find out that your friend-crush slept with someone else, you show up their place at eight in the morning, pounding on the door and demanding to be let in so you can search the closets and shower for presumably nude men who aren’t you.
You think you’re one of those hot middle-aged guys who get to go out with 25-year-old chicks, but you’re not.
You think you’re one of those rich middle-aged guys who get to go out with 25-year-old chicks, but you’re so, so poor.
You think people believe you when you claim that you’re only hanging around with chicks half your age because you want to be their totally platonic, not-checking-out-the-boobs-at-all friend.
You can’t go out with women your own age because “they’re too old.”
The whole damn town is guilt tripping your friend-crush into going out with you or at least staying friends with you.
You can’t open your mouth without some unsolicited advice falling out.
You like to drunkenly lecture your friend-crush about how casual sex degrades and humiliates her.
You put women on a pedestal and then freak out when they reveal themselves to be human beings.
You have a habit of talking down to women you’re interested in, I guess.
You seem to have misplaced your shining armor and white horse, Sir.
You think “I was just being honest” justifies being an asshole.
You think “I was just joking” justifies being an asshole.
Complying with a simple fucking request appears to be beyond you.
Your friend-crush is a perfect ten and you’re a perfect three. (I have to admit, I stole this one from my brilliant friend Kelly, but it’s true).
You absolutely love your best friend. Unfortunately, everyone else hates them. And I mean EVERYONE.
You never met a boundary you didn’t cross.
You go around making bitter, nasty blanket statements about what “all women” or “all men” are like.
You dress like you live in a dumpster.
You also kind of smell like you live in a dumpster.
You’re in your thirties, you live in a van, and also the van belongs to somebody else, they’re just letting you borrow it.
You can’t shut up about how all the other women you’ve ever dated done you wrong.
You don’t know where the line between “doing nice things for someone” and “being emotionally manipulative” actually is.
You don’t understand why a woman would continue to wear makeup if she already has a boyfriend/husband.
You don’t know the right answer to the question, “Does this make me look fat?”
You suffer from “slut panic” – a debilitating, irrational fear that strikes some men when they encounter a woman who likes sex.
You asked the girl out (go you!), successfully went on a few days (huzzah!), but then forgot to make a straightforward sexual advance within the recommended time frame (third to fifth date), and she decided that you weren’t interested after all, and started dating somebody else (oops).