Ennui

Personally, I'm more than a little disillusioned with
 castration. I've used it numerous times as a literary
 device, and it seems to have lost its punch.
 I'm sure it isn't the last taboo; no doubt there are
 endless avenues of violence and depravity for me to
 explore. I've done child molestation,
 president-fucking, golden showers – in fact,
 I believe I helped popularize the phrase "I'd rather
 be pissed on than pissed off"!
 I've written about mass suicides,
 mass murders, and God help me,
 Christian masses. I have blasphemed heinously – although,
 I admit, not nearly as heinously as any major religion,
 try as I might. Some of the shit I've done with shit
 would make your shit turn green.
 I've played with and eaten my own vomit.
 I have fucked your father's corpse in every available
 orifice and have punched out a few new ones,
 and there's not a fucking thing you can do about it,
 and tomorrow I'll do it again.
 I've done bad things with relish,
 and good things with pickles.
 I regret nothing, I apologize for nothing – but it
 is all so appallingly pedestrian,
 and none of it thrills or shocks me anymore.
 It is so sad. So maybe I should just go back to the
 flowers and the bunnies and the sunshine and whatnot.