"Do you ever get sick of it?" she asked.
"Sick of what?" I say, peering over the lip of an over-sized beer.
"Sick of the movie thing. Sick of the fourteen hour days and all the weeks on the road and all the stress and not getting anything for it except a crappy paycheck and a line on IMDB?"
I furrow my browns, "Sick of life?"
She smiles and snickers. "Don't you ever think about getting a regular desk job, nine to five, pension plan, getting to go home before ten at night?"
I mull on this and take a hefty swig. "No," I say. "I have never contemplated suicide."
I don't think she quite understands my meaning.