After seeing a documentary on HBO in 1997 where people threw goats off the roofs off tall buildings (I know, right?), I decided to start weening myself off meat. Over the period of several months, I cut beef, pork, and turkey out of my diet. The most difficult thing to give up? Kentucky Fried Chicken.
And even after I officially became a semi-vegetarian (I still ate—and still eat today—seafood and dairy), I would sneak a box of extra crispy KFC into my apartment once every few weeks and dig into it like a zombie digs into human flesh. After my meal, I would feel so dirty and greasy that I had to scrub myself down in the shower until my skin bled. Eventually, I walked away from KFC, and both our hearts broke as I did so.
On occasion, I'll go into a KFC to chew on a corn cob or chow down some mashed potatoes and gravy (a little chicken broth every once in a while never hurt anyone) just so I can breathe in the scent of fried chicken skin. (That's the best part—can I get a "hell yeah," Filipinos?!)