Sick

I'm making a quick sidestep here. Like, why am I sick all the time? I always like to blame acquaintances and California germs, but that sort of thing shouldn't slow me down this long. I conqured Oregon diseases, standing on top of the mossy pile, bejacketed in lichen and mist, but sunny, pleasant Oakland bests me? I should be putting the screws to the industry and riding a chariot built of guns and drugs from the hills to the bay.
I think it's more insidious than that. Corporate tidings bring a graceful excuse to treat your employees like thieves. Each hour of medical leave a tiny razor strike at the wallet of the shareholders. These disease-ridden, filthy employees are a swarm of cutpurse piranhas.
They swat around their knees and make up policy walls to keep us from climbing too high. They count our movements, in sickness and wealth, by the second. The second. They cleave the day at its joints, then break the filet knife out and slowly grind it into mince. And this isn't enough to make me sick?
Well, not quite. These walls that so irk and stifle me (they keep me down, really, they do) seem only to convince those around me that the solution is to enter the building brandishing an arsenal of microbes that would turn a the whole of Monsanto on its ear. They cast aspersions about their paychecks and cast lesions about their deskpace. Like primitive witchdoctors, owing their health to miracles and poultices rather than rest and solitude. I can rattle against this cage all I like, but I'm barred in by ignorance and violent apathy. And by mucus. A cage of mucus that makes my sinuses heavy and my sleep fitful.
Swear vengeance with me one and all! A bill of health! An ammendment for the oppressed to strike a blow against the diseasedist!