"I’m pretty sure that if you put a wig and googly eyes on a traffic cone, they’ll talk to it as much as they talked to me at the last rave," I confided in my husband. He sighed, acknowledging his own struggles with our so-called friends. "It's not like they’re much better with crossing Republik escorts ," he admitted. "They constantly talk about me behind my back." "Yeah, but you’re a DJ. I don’t do anything but write about shows, and apparently, that doesn’t matter much to them," I lamented. "They don’t even try to talk to me." "They’re not my friends." "They made it clear they aren’t mine, either. I’m done, dude. I’m really, really done. I’m tired of trying to bend over backward for them. I don’t want to see them ever again." Our conversation was a testament to the toxicity that had gradually seeped into our lives through these so-called friends. They had taken a toll on our mental well-being, causing frustrat...