Anxiety Cafe

Sometimes I just can't get a seat at Starbucks, so I head to a smaller place a few blocks away, the Anxiety Cafe. It's not ideal for writing because the regulars are so wracked with nerves and depression it becomes contagious. I'll just shut my laptop, sit back and listen. This is what I hear:
I think one of the Barista people spit into the coffee.
We'll never get a seat, we'll have to stand for hours.
That hot woman in the corner is going to reject me.
I'm going to pass out from the excessive deep breathing in here, sucking up my oxygen.
They're purposely putting too much ice in my tea and overcharging me.
Something moved in my brownie.
Loud talkers over there ruining my vibe.
I think this straw was used before me.
The lemon slices leave a lot to be desired.
I can't write here, I simply cannot write anything in this place.
Acoustic folk Wednesday will kill me slowly.
 I only come here twice a week. Don't want them to think I don't have a life.
I am agonizing over how much to tip on decaf.
Those people over there seem more interesting than our group.
I sense that guy is going to remove his shoes.
I think their WiFi is monitored by the government.
Is that a vomit stain?
I hate their loud flushing toilet.
Where did you park? I can never get parking.
I heard a rumor this whole place is being sold and converted into a dialysis center.
My Anxiety Cafe t-shirt shrunk in the wash.