Vent post: When I was a little boy, I always dreamed that I'd be 37, stuck in my hometown in a dead-end teaching job; biochemically handcuffed to methadone after years of carpet-bombing my receptor systems; physically and emotionally separated from my fiancé, who is geographically so far away that he couldn't be any more distant without leaving planet Earth (although, to be fair, I have become such a ghost of myself that it arguably wouldn't matter if we were physically toget

England is a country with terrible food populated by posh women whose money cannot save them from looking like Mrs. Doubtfire. Because they can't go to the bathroom properly, its people are unruly and often intoxicated; they are deeply classist, their junk is uncut, and one of Earth's most beautiful and hospitable natural landscapes is largely wasted on them. In short, I loved it. 10/10 will visit again.

Three witches preside over the methadone clinic. Their weird magic keeps the viscous methadone syrup flowing through the temperamental machines that dispense it. The Three Sisters' pulsing power prevents fights over girls and drug debts; it sometimes cleans urine samples of the illegal drugs present in them (especially when freedom is at stake), and it ensures that the door to the facility's only single-occupancy restroom unlocks itself when someone is overdosing inside...