I walked in the back door of my mom's house. The front yard was a mess of broken cars and rusted engine blocks, a metaphor for her life; projects started that would never be finished because they were too far gone before they were started. The detritus of a wasted life.

Mom was a used up skank. She sucked for drugs, both sexes and anything in between. Her life was a tragedy, a parade of clowns that were never funny.

She slumped at the small kitchen table, having slept fitfully next to one or more wallets, she was on the outer edge of her last fix, waking up to the...