You've been assisting an evil, narcissistic photographer for years, hoping against hope that she'll hook you up with the right people. When you point out the fact that she's a manipulative egomaniac who's taking advantage of you, she fires you and gives your position to one of the hundreds of other hopefuls waiting in line.

You sold a stock photo you took of your girlfriend looking sad to a magazine that hardly anybody reads. Your friends took you out to celebrate, and you felt like a king. But when you get the dinky check for the shot, you have the sinking feeling that your temp job may not be temporary.

A year ago, a hip gallery bought one of your prints and sold it to a major collector. You got half the sticker price, which let you quit the restaurant. That might've been premature, though. The gallery isn't into your new stuff, and suddenly your big break is looking like a fluke.

In the face of all odds, you've carved out a stable career in fashion photography. The bulk of your money comes from photographing products for catalogues, but, hey, it gets you by. No, your life isn't the jet-setting one of which you dreamed. Still, you're making money behind the lens, and that's better than everybody else you know from art school.

You spend every day jetting around the world to shoot the hottest models and stars. Today Cannes, tomorrow Berlin. Everyday is a stylish parade of beauty and glamour. People ask you when you'll retire, but you know you'll die behind the lens. Why stop when your life is everything you ever dreamed it would be?