I just burped some hearty butter chicken.

Usually, an action like this would see me emitting a small chuckle and a satisfactory grin on fondly recalling a fulfilling meal. But this time, the residual aftermath left me the sordid taste of barfing my guts up on Saturday night.

Oh, what's that? I barfed my guts up on Saturday night?

You bet your little cotton bottoms I did. Now I realise this is not something upstanding members of society look upon with kindness or pride... but I have decided that there is no longer room for shame in my life.

The above picture was tagged of me on facebook the morning after some epic festivities. (More on this later.) At first I was mortified. But then I remembered that I, Nikki Malvar, am comprised of 1 part normal and 7 parts ridiculous, and hence laughed myself into oblivion, and decided that I would man up and choose NOT to untag myself from such a photo.

And now here it is, garnering its little spotlight, in my vastly-neglected blog.

What prompted such a ludicrous display on Saturday night? It was my Roaring 21st shindig. (It was roaring alright... in my head!) But do not let the above picture sully your impressions! It was, in actual fact, a beautiful evening. So special and memorable, thanks to an ample number of people who absolutely deserve thorough mentions. And I do want to dedicate a complete post on the evening, but in keeping with the subject of this blog entry, ('Nasteh.') I believe it prudent of me to save that for tomorrow, and instead keep on with the theme.

So before I bid you adieu, the following things are 'Nasteh.':
* Coughing myself concave. As in, I have no mucus left to coat the throat. (I took up with the flu yesterday)
* Side-swiping a cement-rendered post of my house with my vehicle, just metres from reaching my trusty garage space
* My recent attempt to rekindle my poetry-writingz: (Roses are red / Violets are blue / I don't do romance / Can I just do you?)
* Having a 7:30 am start at work tomorrow, on the other-side of town. Thankfully my boss took pity on my ailing ways and said I could come in at 9. (Not so nasty after all, eh eh eh!)

See y'all tomorrow. I have tales. And pictures!


  1. vomit party. Better that it's out rather than still in your bodily canister.

    I don't butter chicken roar like you. Butter chicken tends to agree with my ethnically half Indian system. hah hah

    Very true. Shame is mostly a chosen reaction. It can be minimized.