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What they don't talk about is when things turn backwards, when you've exceeded the depths of those lowdown folks, when you've become the lower companion to them, when the dope fiend stripper at Jumbo's Clown Room is slumming by hanging around with you, when she stops looking at you as her way out and starts taking pity on you. And soon enough they stop hanging out or taking your calls 'cause you're a bummer, dude, you've really got nothing to offer but misery, you've become this sort of pathetic reminder of where they might end up if they're not careful. Worst of all, when you're not mired in annoying and pathetic woe-is-me victim-of-God-and-the-universe whining, you're an arrogant prick who thinks he's better than everyone and that they owe you.
Luckily, though, there's always one person around is just as sick as you but in a totally different way, and their way out is to have a charity case they can somehow resurrect with "love", which to you means drugs and money. You can both manage to minimally sustain yourselves with this symbiotic relationship between two parasites, although having two parasites feeding on each other is not really the key to long term success which is why it hasn't become much of a biological model over the millennia.
stories: Corningware