I hate feelings.

Feelings herald so much promise and exhilaration—like Farley "I'm like Jojo the idiot circus boy with a pretty new pet!" I've done a lot of good things based off feelings. But...verily, the seeds of failure are found in a packet of feelings.

I've done some dumb things in my life from a place of feelings.

In broad strokes whether in professional sports or the corner church, feelings claim strangers as family until those brothers, sisters, and cousins outlive their utility. Feelings that once pulled two people together, now push them apart, a yo-yo ride of magnetic poles. Feelings shove pizza into my mouth and beer into my belly—at least the logic escapes me as to why I need to carbo load before that big Netflix marathon. Feelings cannot be trusted: as I once wrote, "Friends turned fiends do burden me." Feelings that once fueled words now funnel silence.

Blind in the moment, insightful looking back, I don't know what to do with feelings. I am the Kool-Aid Man crashing through another's pity party; the broth of stewed feelings dribbles into my matted beard.

I hate feelings.

Nevertheless, I shove a fistful of cash into the ticketbooth as the ringmaster catches my eye and gives me that fatalistic wink.