Something I talked about with my daughter tonight is why I am here. My daughter Musille “Silly” is 7. Some background on myself. I am the type of person you know exists but you do not really expect to meet one. In other words, I work at a slaughterhouse. Before you go all hanky-panky on me, it is not one of those modern unethical ones, it is quite old-fashioned. We specialize in pork, mutton, beef, fragrant, and reinvenison during the holidays. Last week, my daughter’s class had a field trip to a slaughterhouse (not the one I work at) and got to see a bit of what happens there. Just a little. The before and after without what happens in between, but she got to hear that part. The trip was actually a big controversy, so the school made it a non-mandatory but highly encouraged field trip, and Silly actually wanted to go. Now, the thing is, Silly had previously not known what my job is. I have never talked about it, and she just thought I work in an office. Now that she has seen a slaughterhouse and not been horrified, I figured it was time to be honest about my job. Obviously, I could not just tell my daughter my job. I needed to talk with my husband first. Like any good wife, I let my husband make all the decisions for me, and I agree with anything he wants to do even if I do not want to. My opinion is not relevant. Anyway, my husband, Osmi, said I needed to tell Silly about my job. So I did. I told Silly that I work at the same type of place as the field trip she went on. Her eyes widened. I breathed relief as she realized my job is neat. She asked endless questions, which I think is healthy for any burgeoning, inquisitive young mindful mind. But the questions kept coming, some of which I did not feel like answering yet. Osmi commanded me to answer her questions though, so I did. To the best of my excellent memory, let me quickly summarize part of our conversation. Silly: *Is it scary?* Me: Yes, but you get used to it. The blood accumulates on your hands and clothes all day, but it all comes out in the wash. Silly: *Do you like the animals?* Me: Yes. They are very cool when they are alive. But I think I like them even better when they are in the stomachs of hungry people. Silly: *Does it hurt when they die?* Me: Animals do not have feelings. Only people do. Silly: *How do you make the animals die?* Me: There are many ways to get the job done. At my facility, we stick to the old-fashioned way. We take a knife, and we first cut off the skin, the legs, the nipples, the rump, and finally the head. It takes a while, and we often get bit by the head just seconds before it leaves the neck forever. I answered all her questions and was ready to tuck her into bed. Oddly, she said she wanted daddy to take her to bed. Then the next morning, she wanted daddy to bring her to school. That night, Osmi informed me that Silly does not like me anymore. I am very shocked and hurt by her behavior, and that is enough for me to ask if there is an asshole. Is Silly the asshole?