Wah lau eh, brothers. I need to post this here because my brain is currently doing a complete system crash. We all know the classic stereotype about why girls end up working as hostesses or PRs in neighborhood pubs, KTVs, and Thai discos. Let’s be completely real: it’s because their life decision-making skills are completely CMI (Cannot Make It).
You talk to them between them pouring your green-tea-mixtape whisky, and you quickly realize their entire adult life is just a non-stop compilation of disastrous choices. The ex-boyfriend who was a “professional cryptocurrency trader” but somehow traded away her grandmother’s HDB flat? Check. Borrowing money to buy a second-hand continental car with a 28% interest rate just to drive to Geylang for mookata? Check. Getting a tattoo of a random guy’s name on her collarbone in a font so big it looks like an MRT station signage? Double check. They make bad life decisions the same way Singaporeans eat cai fan—three times a day, plus supper. That is literally the job qualification to end up in the pub ecosystem.
So there I was a few months ago, thinking I am the ultimate local alpha male. I met this hostess—let’s call her Cherry. Cherry sits at my table, starts complaining about her chaotic life, acting super sweet and helpless. I thought to myself, “Wah, today my luck very swee. I can be the White Knight who rescues this pretty girl from her poor life choices and bad budgeting.”
My ego went through the roof. I started hanging flower sashes, buying her endless ladies’ drinks, and waiting outside the pub at 3:30 AM just to take her out for Hai Di Lao supper. Long story short, she became my girlfriend. I was walking around town feeling like a absolute boss, thinking I scored a major victory in life without even using dating apps.
Then came last Sunday. The plot twist that would make Jack Neo shed a tear.
Cherry asks me out for a proper daytime date at a neighborhood mall. I thought, great, we are doing normal couple things—maybe watch a movie, walk around Uniqlo. I wait for her outside the MRT station. Suddenly, she walks up pulling a stroller with a three-year-old boy in a dinosaur t-shirt eating a Power Wang sausage.
I blinked twice and asked, “Eh, Cherry… who is this? Your nephew ah? Helping your sister babysit today?”
She looks up at me with those massive, heavy KTV false eyelashes, blinks innocently, and says, “No bb, this is my son, Jayden. I forgot to tell you ah? My ex-boyfriend say he go downstairs buy milk powder three years ago then never come back already.”
BOOM. Headshot.
Suddenly, my brain did the math. My girlfriend is a package deal. A single mom bundle. The hostesses end up in the pub because they make terrible, mind-bogglingly bad decisions—like having a baby with a guy who vanishes into thin air at the Sheng Siong supermarket milk aisle.
But you know who made the undisputed, single worst decision in this entire story? ME.
I walked into a dark pub looking for a little bit of stress relief, and I walked out with a 15-year financial commitment for PCF Sparkletots fees, student care subsidies, and NTUC diapers. Cherry didn’t change her habit of making bad choices; she just found a local boy dumb enough to sponsor them.
So bros, I beg you. Next time a sweet hostess tells you her life story and you feel like being a hero, just remember: you are not rescuing her. You are just submitting your application form to become a stepfather. Keep your eyes on the road, drink your tap water at home, and do not play fool with pub logic!