Let me tell you about the night I realized Chao Ah Lian wasn’t just lazy—she was a lying, cheating cockroach. A parasite I sheltered in my parents’ condo, fed with my family’s money, and treated like a goddamn princess. She repaid us by crawling into a married man’s bed. And I caught her red-handed.
The Leech We Let Into Our Home
When Ah Lian moved into my parents’ condo two years ago, she was a sobbing mess. “I have nowhere else to go,” she whimpered. My parents, with their saintly patience, gave her a room, a monthly allowance, and a seat at our dinner table. Meanwhile, she contributed nothing. Not a single dish washed, not a dollar earned. Just endless excuses: “Job hunting is stressful,” “Your family’s so rich, why do I need to work?” She’d nap all day, then demand my mother cook her favorite Hainanese chicken rice. A stray dog would’ve shown more gratitude.
But the worst part? The late-night “walks.”
2 AM “Fresh Air” and Phone Hiding
It started subtly. Ah Lian would vanish after dinner, claiming she needed “fresh air” or “me-time.” She’d slither out in tight dresses, caked in makeup, smelling like a cheap KTV lounge. When I asked where she went, she’d snap, “Why are you so controlling?!” and clutch her phone like a lifeline.
One night, I snapped. I followed her.
I tailed her to a sleazy hotel in Geylang, where a paunchy, middle-aged man—greasy hair, wedding tan line still visible—pulled her into a room. I waited outside like a idiot, listening to her fake moans through the wall. When she stumbled out at 3 AM, I was leaning against the hallway, holding a photo of us she’d left in my car.
Her face went white.
“Wei Ming, it’s not what you—!”
I didn’t let her finish. I threw the photo at her, spat, “Pack your shit. You’re dead to us.”
Kicking Out the Trash (Literally)
When we got back to the condo, my parents were waiting. I’d called them, voice shaking, after leaving the hotel. My father, a man who’d never raised his voice, roared, “Get this snake out of my house!” My mother sobbed into her sleeves.
Ah Lian had the nerve to cry. “I was lonely! You were always working!” she wailed, as if my 60-hour workweeks to fund her Lazada shopping sprees were the problem. I dumped her tacky clothes, her expired makeup, and the $800 necklace she’d begged me for into a construction dumpster. She clawed at my arm, screaming, “You’ll regret this!”
Joke’s on her.
Homeless, Hated, and Humiliated
Last I heard, Ah Lian’s “married man” blocked her after his wife threatened divorce. She’s now squatting in a Johor Bahru hostel, begging strangers on Telegram for RM50 “just to eat.” Karma even ruined her looks—her Instagram shows greasy hair, acne, and the same stained dress she’s worn for weeks.
My parents? We scrubbed every inch of the condo with bleach. Donated her allowance to a stray animal rescue. And me? I sleep better knowing that the worst mistake of my life is rotting in a Malaysian gutter where she belongs.
To Men Dating “Damsel in Distress” Liars
If your girlfriend:
- Refuses to work but demands Gucci,
- Gaslights you for asking basic questions,
- Sneaks out at night smelling like another man’s cologne—
She’s not your girlfriend. She’s a con artist. A lazy, greedy, soulless vulture. Throw her out before she fucks your friend, your boss, or your neighbor.
And to Ah Lian, if you’re reading this on some sugar daddy’s stolen Wi-Fi:
The condo’s clean. Our lives are peaceful. And you?
You’re still trash.
—Wei Ming
*A Man Who Finally Opened His Eyes