Red

Ooo, red. Sexy tempting fiery Ferrari red. Red. Red ink. I like red. I just discovered text coloring on my blog. Red is for fucking, right? Let me cum on your red hair. Oh my, what filth that comes from my red lips. Oh red, you that ryhmes with Ted and head as in giving head. I can't stop talking and typing your letters - r....e.....d. Der backwards is red. When you toss and turn and the mercernaries of insomnia attack, red flashes before you. Red, as you know, is the color of that fag the devil and those genetically inferiour communists. Red, red, RED. My blood that runs trough my body and veins is red. Red is the last color, in an everlasting bond, a victim and killer sees. It's synonymous with malaria too. Some like a crystal blue sky. Not me. I want it red. Like my eyes after I vomit for five hours puking out all sorts of neat red things. Ever see a woman with red lipstick or a red dress or red boots or shoes? Instant access to the huggable and fuckable legion. You think I am vulgar? So I'm flawed. Don't tell me people who wear red are unaware of such imaginations they foster! Red, ironically, means stop at a traffic signal. Red knows no boundaries fools! Red is vintage. It's decadent and sophisticated. It's warm. Rouge, rosso, red is about beauty. Red, so much to say and speak about but I must go now. I like you, in all your virtue and vice, red. Save me.