Right.
In my first GA job, I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, eat a lump of cold poison, work twenty-nine hours a day in an old, falling apart C210, and pay aircraft owner for permission to come to work, and when we got back, our CP would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing "Hallelujah".
This whole business is becoming a case of life imitating art...
...At least I had a shoebox to live in - looookshurry!