A couple of years ago
I lived with a young lady of my very vague acquaintance. She was, as students tend to be, a little relaxed about housekeeping, much to my second flatmate's chagrin. His M.O. was to complain about mess at any and all opportunities without being so bold as to do anything about it, so her attitude of leaving full bin bags outside her door as if that were the end of the matter was source of vexation to the point that he almost talked to her to remind her not to, but luckily it never came to all that.

In any case, when it came time to move out of the flat much tidying was required, so as to convert our abode from a messy hellscape to the more aesthetically pleasing barren hellscape. This was a flat with supernatural powers of mess accumulation. The shower drain became so blocked with hair weekly that it was literally a source of wonder that none of us was bald. The kitchen exuded grease. I don't mean our diets were particularly unhealthy: we were so poor that little beyond toast, beans, lentils and pasta were consumed there. I mean anything left out for long enough would somehow acquire a stubborn greasy coating as if from some mischievous chip fat-themed trickster spirit. This included work surfaces, and thus warranted a constant battle between the cheapest washing-up liquid available and the mysterious puck's oleaginous excreta.

This is just so much prevarication. The true nadir of the story comes on the very last day of living there. The lady had disappeared a few days previous so I go into her room to check she hadn't left anything behind. She has: three full bin bags and a bowl of stale Hobnobs. "Hold on", think I, "who could think of this as an acceptable state to leave a room in? It's as if once something goes in a bin she thinks her part in the matter is concluded."

There are two bins in the bathroom: one is for general waste - your spent razor blades, cardboard tubes, waxy cotton buds etc.; I keep it maintained as best I can. The other has a swing lid and is for feminine hygiene; I have nothing to do with it, until now. Sordid, sordid curiosity gets the better of me and I lift the lid with genuine fear in my soul.

The fear wafts up and punches me in the nostrils; the bin has not been dealt with for the entire year. White cotton is stained brown in places, and has rotted black in others. When veterans talk of the stench of death I have a sudden epiphany about their words. Twelve weeks of unneeded womb lining smells almost exactly like you think it would.

I sent her a text asking her when she'd be along to clean up the rest of her stuff, and mentioned the sanitary bin in passing as if I hadn't really thought about it. What else could I do?

Length? It turned inside out momentarily. Nothing puts you off vaginas like a brutal olfactory reminder of their least pleasant feature.
(StapMyVitals wouldn't mind a bit of that, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 0:25, 3 replies)

Let me shorten that for you.
"I lived with a skanky student flatmate who didn't like emptying bins. Old sanitary towels smell bad."

No need to thank me!
( Pope Shax XIII uses Visio for picture editing, does it show?, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 2:55, closed)

Probably should thank you though.
It's a valid point now you mention it.
(StapMyVitals wouldn't mind a bit of that, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 3:06, closed)

I used to read Hair Weekly but,
er, it wasn't really my style and, um, I grew out of it.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 8:05, closed)