Reading old detective stories is so funny bc like. Murder used to be so fucking easy. I’m reading a Poirot mystery and the murderer just popped down to the chemist and bought a bottle of strychnine. And they were wearing a fake beard so nobody knows who it was. No prescription, no ID, just waltzed in to the shops and bought a bottle of one of the deadliest poisons known to man. Sure, why not.
Me in the 21st century: has to jump through a million hoops every single fucking month to get the FDA approved medication that my doctor prescribed to me that is completely safe for me to take because SOME people take this medication even though they don’t need it and they get addicted to it
Joe Murderer back in 1925: Hey I’m running out to the shops to buy some arsenic, anyone want some morphine while I’m out?











