In all seriousness, I do try to take care of my boo (even though, seeing as Jeff and I wrote our own vows, there was no "in sickness and in health" clause involved. I'll have you know I'm not contractually bound to take care of him. It's pro bono. He's in the other room sleeping right now, otherwise I'm sure he'd have a good bono joke at the ready.) I stock the pantry with soup and Saltines and fill the fridge with the aforementioned pudding snacks, but he insists that his virus can only be felled by pork fried rice, potato chips, and historical documentaries about Bikini Atoll.
Jeff is a much better caretaker than I am. He dotes on me, letting me watch what he calls "my stories," and complimenting me regularly on my recovery outfit, which invariably involves granny panties, bunny slippers, and a sweatshirt I may or may not have bought in the little boys' department because it was $20 cheaper. (No space for boobs, but hot damn, was that a steal!)
I'm rambling, and it's getting hot up in this Slank, so I'll sign off for now.
Oh, but if you see my immune system eating sushi of of naked models in Vegas or passed out on the beach in Puerto Plata surrounded by empty bottles of Brugal, tell it not to bother coming back because A) I've totally moved on; and B) good luck getting a flight into JFK in all this effing snow, dumbass. Me and Mucinex have a good thing going and we don't need you anymore.