To know me is to know that I love animals. Not in a zoophilic way, mind you. But in a their-cause-is-my-cause sort of way. Speaking out for the voiceless and the defenseless. Treating all living creatures equally.

Animals are my friends, and I don't eat my friends. That sort of thing.

Since college, I haven't used products tested on animals, as much as I can avoid it. "Test on a convicted criminal sentenced to Death Row!" was my (somewhat ill-reasoned) battle cry.

Or conduct activities that are far less inhumane than injecting mascara dye into albino bunnies simply to make sure it doesn't cause me to scratch my eyes, at the very least. It can be done, and since it can be done, I support those who do it.

Four years ago, I became a vegetarian. Well, perhaps that's a bit of a generalization, as I'm a bit more carnivorous than the moniker implies. Yes, I still eat fish, so I suppose it can be implied that I don't think they have feelings, too. Whatever. It's easier to call myself a vegetarian, although if you put a gun to my head, I'd have to admit pescetarianism. The point is, the flesh of absolutely 100 percent of the fuzzy animals that have crossed my plate have avoided ending up in the bottom of my tummy since 2006.

Aside from the lustful gazes I get from In-n-Out Burgers, I haven't been so much as tempted to sink my teeth into dead carcass since.

Em. So, yeah, that's a lie.

What I'm about to tell you is admittedly quite repulsive. But I feel obligated to be honest with you, because then I can be honest with myself. And perhaps I can be saved once and for all.

You ready?

I really, really want to eat a KFC Double Down.

I KNOW, RIGHT?

OH, THE HORROR! The shock! The awe! How can I claim to forsake meat when all I want to do is charge my chompers straight into those two thick and juicy boneless white meat chicken filets? Cheese hearts Bacon forever! It's the fried-chicken ménage a trois of the public imagination, no matter what they say! So much meat, no room for the bun! WHY WOULDN'T I WANT IT?

Your repulsion on the Ew-O-Meter has probably registered so high that it has shot through the glass. I can't blame you. Not even meatatarians want to consume these gluttonous abominations, unless the purpose is to arm-wrestle Michelle Obama, that is (which I don't). With all the organic, gated-community-raised, Harvard-educated livestock and poultry out there, how on earth could I possibly fantasize about such an uncouth display of gristle?

I don't know. All I am certain of is that, when I pass KFC on my way home, I think to myself, "Just do it. Just drive on up. Buy one. Eat one. Get it over with. TELL NO ONE. No one will know." 'Cause if a pescetarian eats a Double Down and nobody sees it, did it really happen? I'm banking on the hopes that it didn't.

But every time, I fight it. I fight the temptation with every fiber of my iron-deficient being. I daydream longingly. I fantasize about the tender embrace of cutlet upon cutlet, swaddling cheese and bacon, and how such a decadent succulence will taste upon my tongue. I press my foot more firmly to the pedal. I harden my resolve. And I drive on by.

This time, I'm safe. I made it!

But every night, as I cruise by the blood-red fast-food establishment, I wonder, with a mixture of fascination and dread, "Will tonight be the night that I fall prey to the Meatiest Concoction of Them All?"