Mysterious Barricades

“Whole bunch of stuff going on. Apparently an eye infection.”

While this is not extremely scandalous or disgusting, there are still some conversations that don’t need to be had in a quiet coffee shop. And she’s sitting in my spot. That’s where I sit. That’s the Greg table. Granted, everyone likes to sit at that table, but I’m the most offended when it’s used to leave phone messages containing information probably best left to private spaces or email instead of pursuits of enlightenment. 

“I pay a lotta taxes, so surely I’m the owner.”

Can I just reiterate how that’s my table? Can I pay a subscription for that table? That’s the table where I have my panic attacks. How am I supposed to have a panic attack without my table? I can’t panic at a high-top. 

“I’ll be glad to show you both spaces at your convenience.”

Go to those spaces. Show them to yourself. I need that table. It’s too cozy for your real estate tedium. Academia, that’s what that table is for. Notice my textbook with it’s pretentious title that I payed too much for? That’s academia. That’s what that table is for.  

“My daughter’s moving to Denver for good in May.”

Sounds like you should be catching up with your daughter right now. Go to her. She needs her mother. I need my table. I feel a panic attack coming on.