from concrete

I have to pay for other people’s medicine. It’s terrible. I see all these poor people being cured around me, I see them able to work, I see them live longer, I see society benefit from less illness and greater contribution, and I pay for some of it. It’s their fault they chose poor parents, it’s their fault they fall ill, they should be dying sooner and in horrible ways rather than being cured and getting back to work.

I want to feel self–satisfied in my delusional selfishness. Instead, I feel guilty, or at least I would if I hadn’t had my humanity erased by reading too many Ayn Rand dystopias. I want to be her kind of hero, I want to commit genocide by inaction, and this horrible universal healthcare stops me doing so, dammit.