Me and Eunich

Take off your pants and your undergarments, everyone!
It's Friday.
For those of you who actually need to pay attention to days of the week.
Which is not the case for me, since I was fired from my most recently attained job.
Because I wasn't 'fitting in.'
Of course I wasn't fitting in; I have a penis*.
Seriously though, I believe that my days of retail are drawing to a close.
Which is just as well.
If this keeps happening I'll run out of plausible references anyway.

Alright.
So, girls have been writing me recently.
Random ones.
Under the guise of compliment they've been throwing themselves at me.
That's not true.
But they are making me sweaty under my arms.
I'm not accustomed to strange women just...contacting me.
That's more Peter Russell's department.
I'm trying my best to take it in stride and act as though this just happens to me all of the time.
Turning heads through your writing style.
Wordsworth isn't alive now, but if he were, I'm sure he'd tell me to just 'Go with it.'
And that guy always knew what he was talking about.

Da b'ys (plus filthy Turpin) are getting tired of hearing this, probably.
However! My first-ever song on the guitar machine is coming along.
Relinquish your panties now, ladies.
You won't be needing them anymore.
I figure I master 'Old Apartment,' learn an Alice In Chains or two, and then move to Dave Matthews immediately.
Then we'll see women contacting me at random.

italics count: 3.
*Though it's potentially telling, I feel I should point out that this sentence originally read:
'I don't have a penis.'