Perspective, again

That's a buzz word. I should probably go into writing the news, manning the teleprompter, filling the pundits like cream pies,
but I may not. I may just pretend to know how to write and work in a South American embassy. We'll see.

My suite is getting a little frazzled. There was a pile of garbage with liquor seeping, mopping the floor beneath it. Flies materialized, I swear through black magic. Our pile of dishes started curing staph infections. There was a feeling of rancour because of the singing, the bleating of sheep emitted from the throats of grown and growing men. It was getting bad is the point.

Everyone seemed displeased. Or maybe I was displeased and I imagine the feelings of others to be the same as mine. The passive and the aggressive wrote notes condemning a behavior but they themselves would behave in a way that was condemned by another scratch on the wall.
I'm complaining. I'm a complainer.
Solutions. Solutions.
Okay.

Here's a short story illustrating a point, not necessarily mine:

Susy sauntered into her home, oblivious. She unlocked the door and removed her scarf, placing it loosely on a coat hook. Her mother greeted her. "Hiya Suz! How was school today? Learn anything interesting?"

"Good afternoon, Mother! School was great today, yeah, actually I learned about—"
"Gosh DARN!" Susy's father bellowed from the dining room.
Thinking perhaps her father had stubbed his toe or chipped a tooth, Susy and her mother raced over the earthy Persian rugs and into the dining room. "Gosh, you better Darn EVERYTHING Straight to Heck!" shouted her father.

"What is it Father?"
"The raise I got at work," he continued to shout, slamming his red fists on the table, "pushed us into a new tax bracket!"
Susy thought to herself. She understood that tax brackets were somehow bad and that more is better than less.
"Father, I'm sorry, but what does this mean? I don't understand."

He began breathing again, her father. His breath at first coming in short pants. He skin became the normal polished ivory and he explained: "Susy, I'll put it simply. We will have to give up one of our jetboats. This is like a darn swear on my ears. I'm livid."

Her mother rubbed the back of her husband slowly and apologetically. "Our taxes will be higher, Susy. That's all. We can't afford all of the wonderful Gosh-blessed things we've been given and pay taxes."

"But won't we be making significantly more money?"
"Yes, but the new bracket has a higher ceiling. Honestly, Susan Skylar, do you listen? I just told you."

Susy stood an uffish while in thought while her mother crushed Advil into her father's whiskey and stared at the tax forms.

"Can we get a smaller boat?" Susy asked ignorantly.

"No, stupid Susy, you're so stupid. We want only the best for our family," her mother said, lightly slapping Susy on the face repeatedly.

"I see. Woe is us."

"Woe is us, indeed," said the father grimacing.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Susy, what did you say you learned in school today?"

"Oh, nothing, mother. Ethnic civil war seems so irrelevant now."