"Take the medicine," she pleaded.
"No," I yelled as I stamped my feet, "I won't. It's pills. I wanted capsules. I won't take it."
"But they don't make capsules, anymore," she explained, "more people preferred the pills. You have to take it, or things will get worse."
"I can't take it. I won't take it. The whole family is against me, because I like my medicine in capsule form."
"What," she asked incredulously, "are you talking about?"
"The family," I answered, "they said capsules are for pansies."
"Oh for Pete's sake, honey. That was crazy great Uncle Bob. He's a jerk. No one else said it. No one listens to him."
"You all think it. I know you do. Otherwise, you would have all bought capsules over the years to help increase the demand for them."
"That's insane," she replied angrily.
"See, see," I retorted, "you care nothing for my feelings. You won't even try to understand the sense of loss I feel. All you care about is the medicine. Well, this has become a matter of principle for me. I'm not going to take the pill. I'll just do without it or maybe I'll drink rubbing alcohol instead. Either way, I'll end up in a coma, and then maybe you'll get the point."
"That's simply selfish," she wearily replied as she had the thousand other times they had this argument, "you'll have made your point and we'll be stuck with the consequences."