I'm not even mad at my friends anymore

I'm not even mad at my friends anymore. I'm mad at myself for befriending a bunch of hooligans. Anytime one of their names pop up in my phone, I actively feel my blood pressure rising. I have one friend that drives like we're in Mario Kart, Tokyo Drift, and his car was built in 1812. Every pothole we hit, we get launched 75 feet in the air. Two days later, another one calls me. First words, uhhhh yo bro, am I on speaker? That's never good. I was hooking up with this girl in my car, I forgot to put the car in park. I may or may not have hit the car in front of me. I don't really know what to do. You don't know what to do? Go home and delete my number. All my friends need to get filthy rich. These therapy sessions are not free. I'd rather give advice laying on a beach, drinking out of a coconut in Honolulu. Another one texted me, Yo bro, just send me a 100 dollars and I promise you I'll turn it to 10,000. 10k. What's your plan? 10 all on hands on blackjack. I can't do this. When I open the guys group chat, I swear to God, I question everyone's sexuality. Two of them are married. Good morning, daddy. What are you talking about? Yo boys, I'm hungry. Anyone trying to get some food? You've been looking scrumptious lately. What are you talking about? My best friend's birthday was a couple days ago. Asked me, What did I get you? The gift of freedom. The things I know about you, you deserve 37 years in federal prison.