give too much importance to other people’s opinions

• From Tremembe to Clube da Esquina: trying to forget the barbarism we’re immersed in
• “Dad, please help me”: Opportunity to interact with teenagers

One of the many problems that has presented itself to me at the office is that I give too much importance to other people’s opinions – the cynic in the previous paragraph would say “I’m still writing” – and of course I become hostage to other people’s evaluations. It’s not unusual, but the harshness of the judge who judged me is unusual. Freud will learn a lot from me.

I quickly got on the elevator. As soon as the door closed, I could smell his breath. It was a mix of nauseating perfume, regular chewing gum, and some stupid 80’s taxi seasoning. It’s so sweet and disgusting that just one sniff can give you diabetes.

I wondered who the black creature was that left behind this trail of olfactory destruction. Isn’t this prohibited by the Geneva Convention? How are the UN and Vatican allowing this? What is Bope’s phone number?

I kept imagining some very strange person who would voluntarily apply such a horrible perfume on their body. How bad would your body odor be if you tried to cover it up with this fragrance bomb? It’s like diving into the Chernobyl reactor to get rid of the smell of Fukushima.

I held my breath before my sense of smell set in and pressed the button for downstairs. Two stories high and breathtaking.

The elevator didn’t go down. On the contrary, it went up. A simple tragedy turned into a catastrophe.

Obviously someone will come in and that someone will think I’m responsible for the environmental cataclysm. Now I was a mess. All the decisive judgments I gave a few seconds ago will be against me.

Who will appear in the elevator? Alexandre de Moraes? Odete Roitman? Futrich’s neighbor? This could result in a video of your disgusting face appearing on Stories and the event going viral. Fuck.

The psychoanalyst’s phone went to voicemail.

A small woman with a serious and stern expression, like an elementary school principal, entered. Everything you need. He said a formal good morning to me and stopped a little further down the road, watching the door close. No sign of disapproval. Or nausea.

For a moment, I thought she might be the one to save me, that maybe her sense of smell was taking a toll on the coronavirus, or that she was too Christian and a philanthropist to comment on the situation. There is no prospect of cancellation, at least in the field of smell.

I wish. On the way down to the first floor, she looked over her shoulder at me. It’s a typical profile. Nothing else was needed. For those who live in fear of other people’s judgment, a drop is a letter.

I thought about explaining that there was already a smell in the elevator that I wasn’t responsible for and that it was clearly the work of the devil, but that would only make the situation even more pathetic. The damn woman wished me luck on the way out.

Well, the story spreads like wildfire.

I have been suffering ever since. I don’t know if I should pay someone to advertise that that smell is not mine during a break in Jornal Nacional, or if I should hire an assassin to target that little woman. A T-shirt that says “It’s not my fault”?