Death of a Chicken

It's been a while now since I've wanted to kill a chicken for myself.
I ate meat all the time, but I can hardly remember killing a living creature intentionally. The most brutal I can remember being is a time last year when the flies were out of control and constantly buzzing my face that I invested in a can of Doom. Most of the time, if a cockroach runs across my room, I'll sweep it out.
For a long time, I've been dedicated to non-violence, in many ways. But I still just couldn't bring myself to stop eating meat.
Anyway, I couldn't reconcile my beliefs with my actions (or more appropriately, my diet.) Something had to give, and since I apparently was unsuccessful with my vegetarianism the last two times, I decided it was time to try killing.


Anyway, the point is, I killed the thing. It felt right and honest, and it's made me think about the implications of violence and life/death in general. I could go into detail of how I killed it, and I could even post a picture here. (And I will, but I will only link it, for the squeamish.)
I wont go into it, though. If you want to know what it's like, you should do it yourself.

I will mention how cute it was when my 3 year old little host brother helped me pick the feathers off, though. He wasn't all that good at it, but I can't blame him- I mean, considering the appropriate motor skills for his age group and all.