She’s a lady, named Sadie, who used to be shady. Loves whiskey, me, and the CBC. Hates hockey, brie, and misogyny. She’s a bourgeoisie, from NDG, who got a silly degree—a PhD, in History, or Philosophy—at the Tinder age of 33.
She fell for a florist, named Doris, a Taurus, who sings in the chorus, talks like she ate a thesaurus, and knows her way around a clitoris.
“Hey, Hamer, if a Sadie falls for a florist, and no one’s there to tweet about it, does it make a sound? Am I whoring around? Will this lead to an ultrasound?”
Oh Sadie, Sadie, I’m glad to say: y’all were married last May, had twins today.
—John Faithful Hamer, The Myth of the Fuckbuddy (2017)