It's been said by some misogynists that one shouldn't trust anybody who bleeds for seven days and doesn't die. It's been amended by certain people with whom I stayed on an extended New Year's holiday that one should not trust such people anywhere near the septic system.
I clogged two toilets over three days with a combination of sanitary products and the morning-after effects of a digestive tract compromised by hormones and bourbon. It was embarrassing, to say the least. The Partner brandished the plunger in accordance with promises made at the altar to deal with my shit till death do us part. For reasons unknown to me, his best friend took up arms, too, applying the black rubber suction with as much vigor, and possibly more finesse, than The Partner. If thrashing around in your friend's wife's excrement isn't a sign of true camaraderie, I don't know what is.
I haven't had a visit from Aunt Flo in 18 months. It figures that she'd make up for the absence by showing up at the ski house and screwing with the plumbing.
It's stuff like this that makes me leery of staying with others for extended periods. Subjecting innocent bystanders to my life can be very uncomfortable. At least when everything turns to shit at home, all the occupants are used to the smell.