I am Jack's fat lazy ass

Remember in Fight Club, where whatshisface-not-Brad-Pitt read those old Reader's Digests and learned about internal organs from articles like "I am Jack's pancreas" and "I am Jack's liver?" It's probably yet another in a long line of negative indicators about my mental health that I'm beginning to think like that character. What the hell is that actor's name, anyway? Shit, I have to go look it up now, one sec. Aha! Edward Norton. Yeah, I was never going to come up with that on my own. What on earth did people do before the Internet?

So, it's 2:28pm and I'm sitting in the living room in dirty pjs, a robe, and my husband's slippers, ignoring two moderately whiny babies and one large whiny boy (all also in pjs) while the other, mercifully unwhiny boy plays something quietly in the other room. The last couple nights have been better in terms of sleep consumption, but my much anticipated (by me) rebound into energy and joie de vivre has not yet materialized. I can think of plenty of things I should do, even several things I would like to do, and yet I am doing...nothing. I need some kind of gauge, like a car has, to indicate when my laziness descends officially from decadent sloth into plain old unglamorous depression. Not that a car has that specific gauge, just that it has gauges, period. Wow, this is coming out way too literally from my stream of consciousness, I need to invest in some editing.

Oh, goody, big boy is psychically channeling my hideous mood. The very thing we needed right now was for there to be two of us. I can't think of anything else to write that isn't beyond pathetic, so I'm going to go sob in a corner and rock like a mental patient. The beauty of babies is that when you rock while holding them, it looks like you're comforting them instead of just yourself.