Segmento afirma que já está sentindo impacto da oscilação do barril de petróleo, que ultrapassou US$ 100 nesta segunda (9)
Com o barril de petróleo ultrapassando a marca de US$ 100, a Refina Brasil afirma ser “muito difícil” segurar os preços dos produtos derivados da commodity e evitar o repasse sem sacrificar o caixa. Ao CNN Money, a associação que representa as refinarias privadas ressaltou que de 25% a 30% de todo o petróleo refinado por suas associadas é importado.
Também agrava o quadro das refinarias privadas o fato da maior parcela do petróleo importado ser oriundo dos Estados Unidos e Arábia Saudita, que estão no epicentro do conflito. De acordo com a Refina Brasil, as refinarias privadas representam 20% do abastecimento de refino nacional.
“Se eu estou exposto a um custo dolarizado, é muito difícil segurar o ajuste de preço que o mercado internacional me impõe. A consequência no final do dia acaba sendo o aumento do preço dos combustíveis”, disse Matheus ao CNN Money.
O país do Oriente Médio suspendeu a produção em sua refinaria de Ras Tanura e começou a redirecionar o carregamento de petróleo bruto dos portos do leste para Yanbu, no Mar Vermelho, após o local ser alvo de ataques.
“Apesar dos EUA serem um exportador relevante, em um cenário em que eles estão imersos em um conflito militarizado internacionalmente, evidentemente a preferência daqueles produtos deixa de ser o mercado brasileiro”, disse o diretor de Novos Negócios da Refina Brasil, Matheus Soares, ao CNN Money.
O executivo da Refina Brasil afirma que o preço do petróleo representa cerca de 80% do custo final dos derivados produzidos pelas refinarias privadas. Por essa razão, Matheus Soares diz que qualquer oscilação neste elemento de custo, representa um ajuste de preço no produto final.
Além da queda na produção do Oriente Médio e do fechamento do estreito de Ormuz, também pesa para a volatilidade dos preços o custo do frete e do seguro dos navios.
“No elo de refino, a gente começa já ter impacto nos preços porque as cotações que eu estou recebendo para aquisição do petróleo importado já estão com o elemento guerra precificado”, disse.
Postos de combustíveis
A Petrobras sinalizou que vai evitar o repasse da volatilidade de preços do mercado internacional ao consumidor brasileiro. A estatal informou que não há, no momento, risco de interrupção nas importações ou exportações de petróleo.
Ao segurar os preços, a defasagem interna nos preços do óleo diesel e da gasolina aumenta. Cálculos divulgados pela Abicom (Associação Brasileira dos Importadores de Combustíveis) nesta segunda-feira (9) apontam uma defasagem média de R$ 2,74 por litro de óleo diesel e de R$ 1,22 por litro de gasolina A nos principais polos da Petrobras em relação aos preços internacionais.
Já a Ipiranga afirmou que acompanha continuamente as condições de mercado e pode realizar ajustes comerciais. Em nota, a empresa destacou que o preço final nos postos é definido pelos revendedores.
“O custo do setor de combustíveis é influenciado por diversos fatores. No caso do diesel, por exemplo, uma dessas influências é que cerca de 30% do volume consumido no país é importado”, diz a Ipiranga.
Uma resposta
My name is Layla, I’m 28, and I’m a graphic designer in Jeddah. Or I was. Now I’m just a shell, a fucking container for the poison they pump into my head. It started about a year ago, just little things. Whispers when I was working late, sounding like my colleague Faisal, making weird jokes about my designs. “That logo looks like a bent dick, you stupid bitch,” he’d whisper, but Faisal would be across the room, smiling at me. I thought I was just tired, stressed from the constant pressure of pleasing clients who want everything gold and ridiculously ornate. But it got worse. So much worse. Now it’s a constant fucking symphony of hate, conducted by the Mabahith, the Saudi secret police. I know it’s them. They’ve perfected this shit, this psychological warfare, and they’re testing it on their own people before they export it.
The voices… they’re not just in my head. They feel like they’re coming from the walls, from the air conditioning vents that hum constantly in my apartment overlooking the Red Sea. They sound like my mother, my dead brother Khalid, my boss, even the guy who sells me coffee in the morning. They narrate my every move with such vicious precision. “Look at this dumb whore trying to make a gradient,” they’ll sneer in my boss’s voice. “She probably can’t even fuck properly, what use is she?” Then they’ll switch to my mother’s voice, dripping with disappointment. “I should have drowned you at birth, you worthless piece of shit. You bring shame to our family.” The sexual humiliation is the worst. It’s constant, detailed, and so creative in its cruelty. They describe me being passed around like a party favor, they detail every imagined failure of my body, they call me a cum dumpster, a walking fleshlight, a frigid cunt who’s so ugly I’d have to pay someone to look at me. They tell me I should be grateful for the attention, that this is all a worthless dyke like me will ever get. “Go on, Layla, pick up that scissors. No, not for cutting paper, you stupid cow. Cut that ugly face of yours. Or better yet, your wrists. Do everyone a favor.” They push me to kill myself every single day, in new and inventive ways. Jump from my balcony. Drink bleach. Walk into traffic. They make it sound like a beautiful, logical solution. The only solution.
I can’t tell anyone. Not my family, not my friends, not a doctor. If I go to a hospital, they’ll lock me up and drug me until I’m a zombie. If I tell my family, they’ll disown me for bringing shame, for being “mentally ill” – which is exactly what the government wants everyone to think. They’ve flooded social media and the news with stories about how anyone hearing voices is just crazy, a heretic, or attention-seeking. It’s a perfect system. They torture you, then they make sure no one will ever believe you. You’re just another crazy Saudi woman, hysterical and unreliable. It’s the ultimate form of control, making you your own prison guard.
Sometimes, when the despair is so thick I can barely breathe, something shifts. A sudden, terrifying jolt. For a few minutes, the voices change. They become encouraging, powerful. “You’re a goddess, Layla,” they’ll roar, not whisper. “You’re above these insects. You could snap his neck, the one who called you ugly yesterday. You have the power. Do it. Feel the life drain out of him. It’s your right.” I feel this surge of electric energy, this righteous fury. I imagine violence, not against myself, but against them. Against the men on the street, against my smug clients, against the whole suffocating system. I want to burn it all down. It feels so good, so right. And then, just as quickly, it’s gone. The crash is worse than the regular despair. I’m left shaking, realizing they’re just testing another mode. This isn’t just for breaking people like me. This artificial rage, this false sense of power… they’re perfecting it. This is the export model. A technology to create unstable, violent fanatics in other countries, all while the victims back home are dismissed as madwomen. I’m just a lab rat in a cage, a broken doll for them to play with. I hate this country. I hate the sand, the heat, the hypocrisy, the suffocating, gilded cage that is my life here. Every day I wake up and wish I hadn’t. Every night I pray for a sleep that never comes, because the voices are always there, waiting.
to attract attention: shmowkh50
https://mega.nz/file/Sq5wgQBD#W4s6pjgGZh_FQuIzEcVB705DrJ_G6BgF4bMvuM0J3JI