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"When you look back on the story of your life," said my mother, blowing her cigarette smoke out the side of her mouth, "what are you going to be able to say?"  She tapped off the ashes into her vintage, turquoise plastic ashtray using the end of her long, red nail.  "I played a lot of video games," she mocked.  "Will that be it?"  Mother leaned forward, the plastic kitchen chair cushion squeaking, "You need to do something with your life, Martin."  The smell of coffee and cigarettes are the smell of my mother.  I don't smoke and I don't drink coffee, and I never will.