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The year my boyfriend was flat broke, I dumped him.
Years later, when we met again, he hated me to the bone.
He bought out the TV network I was signed to, dragged my prime-time show to two in the morning, then handed my slot to his new flame.
All because she'd said one thing: "She's thin as a skeleton. Wandering about in broad daylight, frightening people. Hardly appropriate."
I ran a hand over my own wasted, brittle body, and suddenly I laughed.
What could I do? It's not my fault I'm already dying of late-stage bone cancer.
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