I know that my steady, twice-daily patronage of my local Starbucks during these harsh economic times has probably meant that a few of the employees here have been able to continue making regular payments on their Vespas, but I do think that they're just much too happy to see me.

I went in this morning, and first the perky, plump redhead greeted me. "Megan!" she gushed. "Your hot chocolate, of course!" and bustled off to prepare it. "Megan!" Vicky the Stepfordian cashier exclaimed. "How are you, Megan? Doing okay, Megan?" Then from behind me -- the guy from the evening shift, in to get a coffee of his own: "Well, hey, there Megan! Fancy seeing you here again!"

Look, Starbucks folks. I'm glad you like me. Sometimes it's your approval that's all that gets me through the day. But it's too much. You're like that boyfriend who steals your toenail clippings and wears them in a vial around his neck so that a part of you will always be with him . . . always . . . forever. Please don't be that guy. And please tell me that you don't keep the cups I throw out as keepsakes.