When you're not feeling well, why not pick up the phone and call your good old Auntie Biotic? She'll whisk right over in that zesty red Ferrari of hers, trailing goo from the manifold (why won't she fix that?) and bubbling good cheer until her hair froths up and you have to pen her up for an hour before she stops dripping.
She's got appetizers of all descriptions, dainty little tidbits and sweetmeats and otherwise unpalatable organs, decoratively arranged on a platter of cheese so you don't have to worry about whether to unpack that cheese log that's been growling at you from the closet for lo these many years. She'll sprint around your happy home, leaving tiny spots of effervescent, luminescent, sparkling grease for you and yours to enjoy from afar while you recline in the comfort of her bucket seats.
Pull up a chair and listen to her stories, like the one about the girl who got herself knocked up by sitting on a plank, and had to give the baby to Satan because she picked her nose while pregnant, and then he (the baby) was nominated for Antichrist at three, but lost to some Norwegian kid who could shoot fire from his nose. Or don't. It's all the same to Auntie Biotic. She's happy to crochet your hair into a warm afghan without even removing it from your head, if you like.
Just don't mention beets to her and you'll be fine.