Those girls behind the counter hate you. No matter how much your rehearse your order or practice your feigned preoccupation so it looks like you don't even really want the drink you're ordering, they hate you and hope you die. If they touch your palm when they give you your change, they're probably just smearing your hand with poison or fecal matter. This is just like your infatuation with the shaved-head chick at the independent record store all over again. You have so much more in common with the baristas at Starbucks, who aren't allowed to hate you, and so have no choice but to hate themselves.