I'm dying here.

Hands trembling, I force another morsel of food into my already stuffed mouth. I chew slowly, biding time, prolonging the moment before I swallow and you pile another mounting heap of rice and gravy onto my plate.

With guilt-ridden voice and pleading look, I tell you that I'm full. With full of conviction and confidence, you tell me that I'm on a needless diet, that I've just arrived home and should be enjoying the local dishes without restraint. Conveniently, you refuse to acknowledge the two full plates of rice I've consumed - most of it piled on by you - and the fact that I will be staying in Malaysia for... well... the rest of my life.

My breath coming in short, my pants threatening to burst at the seam and my movement languid, I take another spoonful as you insist on just one more plate of rice drowning in three different types of gravy and meat.

Politely, I acquiesce. Just one more, you say. Just one more... (I wish). I sigh in frustration and continue to focus on keeping the food down. As I fight another wave of nausea, that's when it hit me. That's when I know, without a doubt, that I am finally home.