Paromologia (par-o-mo-lo’-gi-a): Conceding an argument, either jestingly and contemptuously, or to prove a more important point. A synonym for concessio.
Her: Oh. the hell with it. You’re right. I’m wrong. Same old song. “Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light—you’re always right.” What’s it like being right all the time? I guess I’ll never know. After two years of this crap, I’m heading out. I don’t know what else to do. Maybe if I was allowed to be right just once when have a disagreement, I might stay
He: You’re not always wrong, that’s wrong! What about last week when I capitulated?
Her: You didn’t tell me I was right. You just said “I give up” and left. I don’t call “giving up” like that capitulating. It’s more like writing off a point of view as if it wasn’t worth advocating.
I’m going to Maine to live with my brother. I’ve always liked it there . I spent my summers up there until I graduated from college. I love collecting beach glass.
He: What a waste time, breaking your back collecting broken pieces of glass and keeping them hidden away in a sandwhich bag somewhere. Why not just collect sheets of toilet paper off a public restroom floor? You have no sense of class—you were born to money but you live like a bag lady. What the hell is wrong with you?
She: You’re what’s wrong with me. I never should’ve gotten tangled up with you. You did a pretty good job of being nice when we first met—you even helped me with my coat. At first, I thought you were being patronizing, treating me like a “woman.” Then, I bought it, and it stopped, and that was around when you quit with the coat and stopped with the dinners out. Sadly, this signified that you ”had me” and you could drop the facade, and treat me like I was yours—I cooked, I did the laundry. I cleaned the house. Washed the car. Mowed the lawn. Did the grocery shopping. Drove your mother to her endless doctor’s appointment. What a bunch of bullshit—you lived the good life while I became a college-educated charwoman. So, fu*k you, you self-absorbed little prick.
He: I’m not going to argue with you. I just have to say, my mother will miss you. Goodbye.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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