Goodnight sweet chicken.

The knife was dull. Much duller than the knife I would give someone who wanted to slit my throat. But here I was, sawing back and forth across this tiny chicken's neck. Hoping to break the skin. Hoping this all would be over soon. His chicken eye staring at me the whole time, as if to say "just get it over with pal".

Then it happened. The tiniest prick. On the 4th try. Blood spewing forth. Dark red. The chicken was now dinner. I was a murderer.

I'd be lying if I said I ever thought I'd kill a chicken and eat it. Just never thought there would come a time or place where that would be necessary. I get my chicken at El Pollo Loco. They do it for me.

But having done it, in the rain soaked jungles of Vietnam, I have to say I feel as though I just completed a necessary human task. I feel kind of alive. In touch with the world around me. Maybe its a primal feeling, but it kind of feels good.

After all I've eaten 100's of chickens and cows and seahorses in my life, and never once had to extend myself anymore than pointing at their names on a menu. For the first time in my life I was part of the whole circle of life thing.

So was it good? Let's just say I appreciate the sacrifice my chicken made…and had I known he'd be so tough and chewy he might still be alive.