There’s hitting rock bottom – and then there’s landing with an unceremonious thud on a couch in front of Dr. Phil while wearing a very unfortunate red blouse that looks like it has a vest attached to the front of it while you recount how the sobriety you claimed to have never struggled with has finally begun to cause you some stress.  Kim Richards, that beacon of strength, sobriety, and personal restraint – the woman whose on-camera antics over the last five seasons or so on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills have caused me to feel both mild puzzlement and a sweeping and genuine concern for the future of all mankind – plummeted to her newest level of rock bottom and obviously made sure this latest trip to the gutter was televised because if a lens is not aimed directly at her chin, how will we know for sure if it is quivering with poorly-articulated emotion?  How can we be sure time itself is even passing?