Anna hates pervasive smells

Don't eat tuna around me. Don't make so much bacon that my clothes take on the smell. If you smoke, fine, just don't do it around my hair so that the smell of your cancer is still prevalent when I take a shower three days from now. If you've eaten sooooo much delicious seafood that -- wow! your fingers still smell like it! -- keep them the hell away from me, because I will vomit on your face and then punch you in the foot.

Ok, blah blah blah, some foods smell bad and make me angry. And to be honest, I realize that some of them aren't avoidable. For example, I choose to subject myself to a wide range of potentially offensive smells each time I enter a restaurant. Fine. Yet on the other hand, say, at my office, I have no choice but to be here. I must take the train each morning, walk to this building, take the elevator to the 16th floor, and sit behind this desk for what feels like 37 hours each day. Before going home and doing it again.

So this morning, when the smelly man got into the elevator with me in the lobby, I was already angry. I loathe these elevators on their own; there are four, of which only three are working at any given time. They make phantom stops at floors that no one wants to stop at, they stop halfway between floors a la Being John Malkovich, and though I have never been "trapped" on one like everyone else in this building has, I really believe it is only a matter of time before I plummet all 16 floors to the basement and die. So every time I need to get anywhere, I am already filled with dread, anxiety and the rage of 1000 burning suns.

It takes forever to get to the 16th floor on these elevators, so when the smelly man got on, I knew that I was committed to at least one full minute trapped in this man's stench. Seriously, he smells like the subway after it rains so it's a little musty in addition to whatever foul godforsaken and probably poisonous substances are already on the subway platform. And a little bit like tuna. And the worst part about the smelly man is that he's in a wheelchair, so I can't even make fun of him and you have to be super nice and hold doors open and stuff, knowing full well what is to come. And you're probably already judging me for it, but you know what? The man stinks. If Christian Bale had gotten on that elevator with me and smelled like that, I'd be just as pissed off. And I'd probably stop sending him fanmail. Hourly.