That night, Wendy was lying on her couch, staring at the TV with a bowl of cherries on her lap.

"Why is it the best guys have to have the weirdest 'quirks'," Wendy thought to herself, "Why can't Stan be less vomit-y?"

The fact that she was watching Jeff Goldblum's "The Fly" wasn't exactly helping things.

As Wendy's Dad came down the stairs and saw his daughter, he knew he couldn't stand to see her like that. But, he couldn't do anything until he knew what was wrong.

"Hey Wendy," Wendy's Dad questioned, "Mind if I sit on the couch?"

"It's a free country," Wendy mumbled, "For now."

"Look," Wendy's Dad began, sitting on the couch, "I know that we can all get a little hurt sometimes, but it's not worth moping around the house like this."

"You don't understand my problems," Wendy grumbled.

"I bet I understand them better than you think," Wendy's Dad nudged.

"Really," Wendy questioned, "So, you've also dated a wonderful guy who vomits on you every time you go in for a peck on the cheek?"

"Well," Wendy's Dad stuttered, "No, but I think I saw something like that on Dr Oz. And Dr Oz said that the only way he could live his life was to accept his condition and move on."

"I don't care what Dr Oz says," Wendy snapped, "I don't mean to be rude, but maybe you should try and accept that not every problem can be fixed with you coming in here and spouting television philosophy."

"Fine," Wendy's Dad threatened, "Maybe I'll just leave you then."

"That would be much appreciated," Wendy breathed, "Thank you."

"Alright," Wendy's Dad growled, leaving the room.

Suddenly, Wendy heard the doorbell ring and got up to answer it. She looked out the peephole to see Stan awkwardly smiling with his hands behind his back.

"What do you want, Stan," Wendy asked.

"Please let me in," Stan pleaded.

"Give me one good reason I should after what you did today," Wendy griped.

"You're my girlfriend and I asked you to," Stan responded.

"That's very offensive," Wendy complained.

"I said I asked," Stan countered.

Wendy finally caved in and opened the door for Stan.

"You are not going to believe what I found," Stan cheered, showing off a small container of pills, "This pharmacy gave me a bunch of pills that are supposed to keep me from vomiting when we kiss."

"I don't know," Wendy cringed, "I don't want to know what happens if it doesn't work."

"Come on," Stan pleaded, "It's been tested to death on other humans. It's supposed to work."

Wendy saw Stan grow a depressing look on his face.

"Fine," Wendy gave in, "Let's try it."

"Awesome," Stan cheered.

Stan placed one of the pills in his mouth and swallowed it.

"You ready," Wendy asked.

"Yeah," Stan replied, "Can't wait for this."

Wendy closed her eyes and puckered her lips. Feeling no nerves, Stan closes his own eyes and puckered his own lips. Then, to both of their surprise, they were able to touch lips for a full five seconds before they pulled apart.

"How do you feel," Wendy asked.

"Fine," Stan giggled, "I feel great. Like butterflies are in my stomach and staying in there."

"Really," Wendy questioned, "That's amazing. Why don't we see if we can replicate the results on the couch?"

"I don't completely understand that," Stan replied, "But if it means we get to make out more, than I'm in."

After about a half an hour of making out on the couch, Wendy found herself standing by Stan while he threw up in her toilet.

Turns out Stan's pills didn't stop the vomiting. They just let the vomit build up until it had to leave the body, which was right now.

And after that much kissing, Stan had a lot of vomit buildup.

"Sorry, Wendy," Stan apologized between vomiting fits.

"It's ok," Wendy grumbled.

"Is it really, though," Wendy thought to herself.

As much as she loved Stan and knew he was probably the closest thing she'd get to a perfect boyfriend in this town. But the vomiting problem really was too much.

She had to talk to someone about it, and she had to do it now.

"...And now I just don't know what to do," Wendy complained into the phone, "You're the only person I felt safe turning to for help."

"Let me tell you," Bebe replied, "You are going to be glad you turned to me. I have two words for you: sexual walkabout."

"What," Wendy questioned.

"Come on," Bebe argued, "At the end if it, you'll actually know if you really want to stay with Stan. I suggest starting with Kyle. He's Jewish, so you know he's got to have it good down there, if you know what I mean."

"I'm not cheating on Stan," Wendy countered.

"Make it fair," Babe argued, "Tell him he can sleep with other people too."

"Every word you say makes me hate you more," Wendy grumbled.

"Let me just talk to Stan about this," Bebe moaned, "Put him on the phone."

"He's still in the bathroom," Wendy admitted, "'Preoccupied'."

"Wait," Bebe questioned, "You just left him in the bathroom to vomit by himself?"

"Yeah," Wendy countered, "What's the big deal?"

"That's cruel," Bebe growled, "Not even I would do something like that. Maybe the problem has been you the entire time."

Suddenly, Wendy thought to herself that this could be the solution. She even always knew what a great guy Stan was.

So, were these feelings entirely her fault? Should she try to deal with them in any way? Should Stan know about these feelings?