I Can’t Get Over You Getting Over Me


It was a title match

I was a twelfth-round knock-out

I wasn’t morning sun

But you were a midnight black-out


You took me up and down

On your rollercoaster

Less up than down

But I would have killed anyone for you


And I can’t get over you getting over me

And I can’t get over you getting over me


You were a marathon

That left me so exhausted

Body and mind

And thoroughly disgusted with myself


When you’d say jump

Everyone was at your service

And when you got that look

You made everybody nervous


And I can’t get over you getting over me

And I can’t get over you getting over me



Maybe I stayed too long

And then I couldn’t wait to escape

Maybe I left too soon

And you were just about to change


And I can’t get over you getting over me

And I can’t get over you getting over me


You left me twisted

More broken than bent

Is the new guy a prince

Does he like your stupid friends?


I’m still wounded

And I can’t stop the bleeding

I apply pressure

But I still regret not cheating that one time


And I can’t get over you getting over me

And I can’t get over you getting over me

And I can’t get over you getting over me

And I can’t get over you getting over me




I Can’t Get Over You Getting Over Me

Words and Music by Chad Gendron 2011


I HATE YOU: a letter to my ex

You hurt me so bad! I’m having trouble breathing. No one was as close to me as you except my mom, and even she didn’t know all my secrets.
You let my birthday go by ignored, which wasn’t surprising, but it did prove how you didn’t really want to be friends after all. I don’t know your previous intentions and I won’t second guess them now, but just by judging your actions alone, you don’t care about me.
Why didn’t I trust my instincts? You kept lying to me, telling me crap bs, stupid promises and declarations of love that were based on the moment and not your true heart. I should have listened to my 11th grade history teacher who told me to use my head to make decisions based on the facts only. But my heart wanted to believe you cared. I guess in this case my heart was wrong.
I have a date next week and it feels like I’m cheating on you. He has a lot in common with you, actually, which sucks. He’s black and a sci fi geek, except he’s more warm and expressive, which you lacked (you were a cold douche bag).
He even sent me a birthday card (without me having to hope) and wants to do something special for me. After being with you so long, that’s a first. I hope I can learn how to handle being with a person who knows how to treat me right!
Yes, you did nice things, but I realize those acts were driven by obligation and a sense of guilt, not passion. You’re an ass for acting like I was such a burden to you and blaming me for your problems.
Today I really hate you. I don’t even like your ugly name. It rhymes with pee and it’s just as stinky. You are holding me back and you aren’t even here!
It’s amazing how I can hate someone so much that I used to love. The thought of you repulses me—you with another woman, telling her your crap lies as you use her for sex. You’re probably with someone like Jamie, because you ____________ brothers are masochistic weenies who get off on women who cheat, call you names, and humiliate you. I never did those things to you and you treat me like garbage.
I guess I should laugh at you in front of your family and put you down like L does to your brother D (who is such a wimp…I liked him but he lets his wife walk all over him and he actually prefers to LIKE it that way).
Next time I am going to stay away from you a-hole “nice guys” and your “long-suffering” (as you characterized yourself) ways.
Ya’ll just want someone to blame for being irresponsible, so you can hide behind their apron, you wimp!
I hope you get kicked out of college; you deserve it for playing videogames instead of doing your assignments. You always lied to your professors and told them you had some kind of emergency. You’re full of it.
I know I deserve better than you and everyone knows that. They know what a jerk you are. E even said she wouldn’t put it past you to have a booty call; she never trusted you. Funny how I was so blind. I feel like such a fool for letting you manipulate me by acting like I was incapable of choosing my own outfits, meals, and everything else. You even put down my writing.
I just got accepted to a professional writing school, little do you know…

Eat that, you bum!


Editor’s Note:

Here’s a book that might help:

The 12 Step “Relationship” Detox Program: A Girl’s Guide to Help Regroup, Rethink, and Rediscover Herself After a Bad Break-Up

Here’s a song that might help:

Carrie Underwood: Some Hearts (Track 7: Before He Cheats. The rest of the album may or may not cheer you up.)

And if all else fails, here’s a movie you might find fun:

The Last House on the Left (Unrated Edition)

Press nine to say eff u…

Dear Sir:

I am writing to thank you for bouncing my check with which I endeavoured to pay my plumber last month. By my calculations, three ‘nanoseconds’ must have elapsed between his presenting the cheque and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honour it. I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my Social Security cheque, an arrangement which, I admit, has been in place for only eight years.

You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account $30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience caused to your bank.

My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways. I noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become.

From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person. My mortgage and loan payments will therefore and hereafter no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank by check, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must nominate. Be aware that it is an offence under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope.

Please find attached an Application Contact Status which I require your chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me,there is no alternative.

Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Notary Public, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof.

In due course, I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she must quote in dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modeled it on the number of button presses required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Let me level the playing field even further. When you call me, press buttons as follows:

  1. To make an appointment to see me.
  2. To query a missing payment.
  3. To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there.
  4. To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping.
  5. To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature.
  6. To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home.
  7. To leave a message on my computer (a password to access my computer is required. A password will be communicated to you at a later date to the Authorized Contact.)
  8. To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through 7.
  9. To make a general complaint or inquiry, the contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service.

While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait uplifting music will play for the duration of the call.

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement and may I wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous, New Year.

Your Humble Client

Editor’s note: This letter was allegedly sent to the bank who’s policies were being questioned. The bank manager was apparently so amused by the woman’s tenacity and cleverness that he submitted it to the New York Times who published it! Really? Regardless of the authenticity of it’s publication in the New York Times, which has not yet been substantiated, for our purposes it works just fine. Thanks to the woman who took the time to write her brilliant and I’m sure, futile letter.

You make me touch ur hands for stupid reasons…

Here is a fine example of being so hurt that spelling and punctuation go out the window. But sometimes just letting it rip is the best approach. If you took the time to edit, there might be the temptation to ease off a bit. Remember, sometimes irrational is the best approach.

YouTube player

Dear Dad…

May 10, 2011

Dear Dad,

I hope you enjoy the cologne and the carton of cigarettes. I thought you might like a little drink with a smoke. Have you made any new advancements in keeping leaves out of your garage? Any new drawer liners in your tool box? How’s your mother? Are you still living in her basement or have you moved upstairs yet?

Your son,


Just a quick line…

January 28, 2003


I have dropped you a quick line to inform you that I believe you are the vilest of creatures, the kind I thought not to exist. You are a vampire in your villainy. Only your breadth of girth and the volume of your face convinces me you are not a crab from the Devil’s nether crevice. You are sick and corrupt and your deeds are shameful, not shameful like those perpetrated by Nero but much, much worse. You would steal the dying Jesus’ loincloth in spite, envious of his view from the cross, if only you could. It wouldn’t surprise me if you occasionally poisoned kittens. You are a black hole, an abyss that devours sunshine. Perhaps your kind have always existed and history was afraid to mention them for fear of eliminating all hope in the hearts of humanity. Please die. And I want my CD’s back, they’re the ones with a “C” on them.

Yours truly,

And I hate you,