is it the mothballs

Molecule of the Day: Naphthalene

Naphthalene (C10H8) is a colourless solid with a strong smell of coal tar. It is a common household chemical, and is used as a component of mothballs.

At room temperature, it gradually sublimes to form gaseous naphthalene vapours, which are toxic to moths. It is also used as a fumigant to repel other insects and small animals. However, it is also toxic to humans, since it can damage red blood cells if inhaled in large quantities. It is also rather flammable, so it is being gradually replaced by para-dichlorobenzene in mothballs.

Naphthalene is aromatic, but its electrons are less delocalised than in benzene. As can be seen in the resonance structures below, some bonds have greater p-character due to having a double bond in 2 out of the 3 resonance structures, while others have less due to having a double bond in 1 only.

It can undergo reactions typical of aromatic compounds such as electrophilic substitution, but also undergoes oxidative cleavage of one of the rings, such as by acidified potassium permanganate, to produce phthalic acid.

Naphthalene is industrially produced from the fractional distillation of coal tar.

Originally posted by checanty

domestic meithman headcanons
  • mothman sleeps hanging from the ceiling
  • keith tries to do it too so they can sleep together but the blood pools in his head and he almost dies
  • mothman keeps the temp low so he can live comfortably inside
  • whenever keith tries to turn up the heat on the thermostat mothman screeches into the void and shatters all the windows in the house
  • mothman hides in the closet and eats all of keith’s sweaters
  • when he eats keith’s last pair of underwear, keith puts mothballs in the bedroom
  • mothman is exiled to sleep hanging on the ceiling above the couch

anonymous asked:

what about susan who got married and had a child while in narnia, and then returned to england as a child, a whole life and family left behind?

That Susan? That Susan does not embitter herself, does not brick her heart off, does not doubt like it’s a lifeline– not yet. She yanks open the wardrobe’s doors as soon as she finds her balance, shoves through the fur coats and mothballs, and slams into the solid back of it. She shuts the wardrobe and opens it; locks it and unlocks it; throws all the coats on the floor; gets wood splinters under her fingernails from trying to get through the back of it. 

It is one things to lose a home, and it is another to lose a child. I don’t think she would ever stop looking. 

Her little girl couldn’t have been more than four or five. Did she have Lucy’s cheeks? Edmund’s wit? Peter had been her favorite aunt or uncle, because he had been so patient with her. He had been teaching her to read. 

Susan dredges up every arcane idea she’d ever heard whispered in Narnia, about its magic, about its origins, anything that might lead to a way back. She researches the wardrobe, its make, its history. She drags its purchase papers out of a sympathetic Professor Diggory, who has never had children and who does not understand, especially not with Susan’s present pubescent face glaring up at him. 

When they send her back to her parents, when the war ends, she kisses her mother on the cheek and then runs away from home, to go find the wardrobe manufacturers, to find supposed occultists in cheap little flats that smell of garlic, to bury herself in library stacks. 


And what about the child? Her mother, aunt, and uncles all gone on a single afternoon. Susan’s daughter was just learning to read, and now she is crowned princess heir. She has beaver nannies and centaur tutors, and she has stories about how beautiful her mother had been. 

The last thing she had seen of her mother had been her riding away through Cair Paravel’s gate, long dark braid whipping behind her. She is afraid of horses all her life, but she rides them anyway when she is old enough. It would not do for a queen to seem frightened. 

Her father is the sort of verybminor foreign royalty who had farmed his own little plot of land way out in the backcountry. They had needed to make an alliance, but for all Susan’s practicalities that was one place she remained– what was it exactly? Faithful. Childish. Stubborn. She wanted to marry for love, and she had. 

But Susan disappears, the queen and king and high king with her, and her husband gets pulled out of tending his private vegetable garden to be his only daughter’s regent. He tries to keep her separate but teach her what she needs to know, all at once, so Susan’s child grows up with that weight on her shoulders early. 

She does not know it, because the court artists always painted her mother smiling, but those stiff shoulders are one of the best connections she will ever have with her mother– Susan had been made the little mother too early, too, the one relied upon, who worried and herded and doubted because no one else was going to do it. Her child is a little queen, looking out and out over the acres of land and knowing what she owes this quiet piece of the world. 

She rules in peace and in war, neither Gentle or Valiant but instead Wise. Her name is spoken with love and praise, and she raises her own children to be just, to be valiant, to be gentle, to be magnificent. 


Susan has still not given up looking when her own horn calls her home to Narnia. It has been more than a year for her. It has been hundreds for her home. Cair Paravel might be overgrown, unrecognizable. It might be recently abandoned. It might still be thriving, vibrant, alive. 

But this is what matters: Susan walks up to a high green hill and all the old standing stones propped up on its ridge.

She finds her husband’s name and drops wild daisies on his grave. She finds her daughter’s grave. She traces the dates of her rule, of her life, and she drops down and weeps. 

They save Narnia, again, from invaders and war, and Aslan sends them back to England. 

When she forgets about Narnia, seventeen and widowed, seventeen and her child grown and buried and unknown and decomposed– when Susan forgets about Narnia it will be, more than ever, an act of self defense. 


Alternatively: Susan manages to shake news of the rings out of Professor Diggory. 

She and whichever of her siblings wants to most stumble back onto Narnian soil: Peter wouldn’t leave the two younger kids alone in England; Edmund loves Narnia as much as anyone, still feels like he’s repaying it debts that it’s already forgiven him for, but Lucy has been crying since she crashed back down on her skinny knees on the upstairs bedroom floor in the Professor’s old country house. So it’s Lucy and Susan who take the rings, then. They kiss their brothers, their co-monarchs, on their cheeks and they go.

The girls hike with younger, childish muscles to Cair Paravel, their limbs growing and strengthening in the Narnian air, remembering themselves. They will not reach their exact old heights, not for years, but they are home and that is enough to send them sprinting and dancing and crying as they travel old known paths. 

Susan is smaller and her child is older, closer to grown, but they slam into each other’s open arms as soon as they see each other in that royal courtyard– however close in size they get, her mother’s arms will always be the safest place she knows. 

Lucy and Susan retake their crowns. Susan curls up in the warmth of her husband’s arm, buries her face in his shoulder, and tries to inhale every year she missed. He gives them to her in stories at the breakfast table for years, in ecstatic descriptions of carrot crops missed out on and fields of grain unseen. Narnian agriculture has seen a boost in the years of his regency. 

There are years of Susan’s daughter’s life that she missed, and she grasps what she can of them in recollection and anecdote. She tells them about the desperation, much more amusing now, with which she searched for them. She and her daughter build something new between them, these two daughters of Eve. Lucy still gives the best piggy-back rides even when Susan’s daughter is almost of a height with her. 

Lucy and Susan reign well–valiant and gentle, blinding faith and practical doubt. When Susan’s daughter is old enough, Lucy and Susan forfeit her their crowns and stay on as advisers. They never hunt stag again, but even as an eighty year old Lucy hobbles her way down to Mrs. Beaver’s daughter’s little house for tea and to hold baby beavers in her wise old lap. 


When Peter and Edmund get yanked back into Narnia from a train stop, Susan’s old horn is not being blown by a Calormene named Caspian. 

Susan is buried on a high green hill, Lucy on one side and her husband and daughter on the other. Their granddaughters and grandsons are scattered over the hill, and Peter and Ed do not even know their names. 

The stones are worn by strong wind and long decades. They are overgrown with small white flowers. The boys will go up there, later, and they will cry like the earth is still dark and fresh over each of those graves. For them, it is. 

But Cair Paravel is not overgrown, destroyed, or forgotten. It is centuries older and Peter and Ed do not recognize the new additions, the court fashions, or even some of the words whispered by the gathered crowd. 

They do recognize the crinkled eyes on the young queen standing crowned and patient before them, a horn in her hands. She has Edmund’s best quirked grin, and they will learn she has Lucy’s talent at speech-making and Peter’s at tactics. They recognize her long dark hair. 

i. cherry lips and condensation running down the side of the soda can, her laces undone, hair up. here is the sun and it wears shirts yanked free from the back of cupboards that smell like mothballs. here is the sun and it looks across the courtyard, eyes peeking over the latest issue of some outdated magazine that hasn’t published a thing since ‘85.

ii. we played tennis all summer, shoes squeaking on the court, laughter like poison in our throats.

iii. i still keep the photo of you in my jacket pocket, where i can’t see your smile, your eyes staring out from the past like pilot lights that gutter and fade into oblivion.

iv. lying in the grass, holding hands. my mouth tastes of blood, and your knuckles are bruised, but that’s fine. it’s always been fine.

v. the summer of never growing up. the summer of the ambulances screaming up and down the roads of our suburbia kingdom, us watching through blinds as we eat honey straight out of jars- here, eat this ichor, here, take this power and turn yourselves into something worthy, something-

vi. here is the sun and she’s packing her bags. here is the sun, and i’m pulling on sunglasses as she’s pulling out of the driveway in a car that’s going nowhere fast- and everywhere faster.

vii. the summer of never growing up. the fall of learning how to pick yourself off the sidewalk with broken bones and a mouth full of decaying forevers.

Avian Medical Case of the Day: Do you know what these are? I saw something I had never seen in 28.5 years of avian veterinary practice the other day! A poor little sick budgie had SIX OF THESE CONTAINERS OF POISON ON HIS CAGE, AND THE CAGE WAS KEPT MOSTLY COVERED SO HE WAS TRAPPED WITH THESE FUMES!!!
“Bird Protectors” are a completely outdated waste of money that are supposed to get rid of parasites, but can actually put your bird in danger! They contain 50% Paradichlorobenzene. Mothballs in the U.S. contain very high concentrations of either naphthalene or paradichlorobenzene as active ingredients. They are meant to be used in closed, airtight containers so that the fumes they produce are trapped to kill moths. Mothballs can harm people, pets, or wildlife that may touch or eat the mothballs, or breathe their vapors.
We aren’t sure, but this may be why the poor little bird was sick. The “Bird Protectors” were removed from the cage, and other tests and treatments were performed to see if we can save the poor little fluffed up baby.
Save your money and your bird, do not purchase these, or the Mite and Lice Sprays sold at pet stores or on Amazon or other sites, because parasites are very rare on birds that don’t go outside.
In fact, if you have some spare time, please go to the websites for the big pet stores and Amazon and leave negative reviews, as these products contain great ratings from people who don’t know any better! 

- Julie Burge, DVM

“Why are they still selling them?” 

Just as they still sell sand perches even though they’re awful for birds.
I had someone relinquish cockatiels and inside their cage, every single perch had sand perch paper rolls over them. 

I asked a spokes person from a bird supply company (I forget which one) about discontinuing them. She said they were selling, and unless they had a product to replace them with, the will continue to sell them.
She herself actually fought to get rid of them and hit a brick wall. This is where consumers need to speak with their dollar and online reviews.


Hey, everyone! I’m finally back after a 7 month writing hiatus! This didn’t turn out quite as well as I had hoped, but I still hope you all enjoy the angsty goodness anyway~

Summary: Natsu is the reason why Lucy was unable to say goodbye to her father before he died. Now their relationship is falling apart and Natsu is scrambling to fix it. Nalu one-shot



He was cold. The sheets were a damp tangle around his bare waist, and the whirling ceiling fan above the bed was blowing softly against the thin sheen of sweat slick on his skin. His chest heaved, shoulder blades and spine digging into the mattress as his muscles constricted against the hardness of the cushion. It was threadbare and old, a bed that they had picked up in a thrift store back in Hargeon, with stains and dust clinging to it in the way that the mothball smell clung to their chipped wardrobe shoved in the corner of the room. He knew this, but had it always felt this uncomfortable?


Something poked his cheek bone, and with a short slough he peeled back his eyes, hands ritualistically reaching out to the other side of the bed. All he grasped was cool, dry air. The bed was empty. As it had been for the past month. A new shiver twisted down his back, and every hair on his skin rose.


Blinking at the sound of her voice, Natsu lifted the sheets twined around him in a fist and rolled over in bed. Lucy was sitting on the carpet, right beside the ashy stain leftover from when she had knocked a candle over on that night. Behind her, the blinds were open, the corner of the moon pitching a single beam of white light across the right side of her hunched body; it glinted against navy blue nail polish every time her fingers drummed down across her knee. The other leg was jiggling up and down. Her eyes, weighed down by the dark circles beneath them, were flitting all over him.


“Are you awake?” She was trying to whisper, he could tell, but as usual she just ended up sounding loud in the soft air; harsh and urgent. Something he’d grown used to as of late.

“Guess so,” he grumbled, pushing himself up on the mattress. Springs creaked.

He was eye-level with her now and he couldn’t tell if the lack of light in her eyes was due to the shadows dancing across her face, or something else. With the back of his hand, he wiped his clammy forehead.

“We’re out of milk.”

“Okay,” he drawled, not bothering to hide the question in his voice. “I’ll get some in the morning.”

“I want it now.”

Though her tone and volume never changed, the words made him flinch a bit. His eyes flickered to the clock. 3:52 am.

“Now,” he repeated, letting the word slide off his tongue on a quiet huff of air. He raked a hand through his pink tangles. Faculty meeting at 6:45am. Then seven hours of teaching right after. His head was already aching at the thought.

But there was a tiny, little spark of hope that was glinting at the very back of Lucy’s eyes.  He hadn’t seen seen it in so long, it was enough to have him pushing off the mattress with a groan. There was a pair of jeans with the belt still in them crumpled on the floor from where he’d kicked them off earlier that night, and he tugged them back on over his black boxers, leaving them unzipped for the moment. Below him, Lucy plucked a random shirt off the floor and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said with a smile, ruffling her hair as he walked past. “Let me pee, then we can get going.”

A moment later, Natsu was finally feeling awake as he and Lucy wrapped layers around them. Huffing out a heavy breath after fixing the collar of his coat, he bent to pet the small, white dog shaking at his feet.

“We’ll be back in a few.” The puppy yipped when his fingers slipped into a rough scratch on the side of the neck. “Watch the house, alright?”

Lucy was watching him with tired eyes when he rose up from his crouch. He smiled at her and gave her hand a squeeze, hoping to relieve the tension metastasizing in the quiet air around them.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

She nodded without returning his smile. Her hand was limp in his. “Hand me my scarf, please.”

Slipping from the loose embrace of their hands, Natsu tugged the black yarn scarf from the closet, making the hanger twist and turn erratically. Lucy held her hand out expectantly, a thank you already beginning to fall from chapped, parted lips. But he ignored her, stepping up until he was inches away from her, and wrapped the scarf around her neck with slow, patient movements, being sure to tuck her chin and mouth inside the soft material to keep in as much warmth as possible. When he was done, the frayed ends shoved inside the collar of her coat to prevent unravelling, he pressed a firm kiss on the crown of her head. He could smell her shampoo, the same sandalwood vanilla, intoxicating scent that she’d been using when they went on their first date. He missed it.

He missed her. 

Keep reading

Poor Unfortunate Soul

special thanks to the betas – @professor-maka, @ilarual and @earth-shines, as well as @sojustifiable @redphlox @d4s-scribbles and @lunar-resonance for commentary and giggles ♥

my groovy artists @ashsocolourful and @peregr1ne also deserve many thanks for putting up with my terrible ideas always. 

and of course, thank you mods for all of your blood and sweat and tears. 


He hates his fucking life.

Violet Baker grins at him, ruthless and toothless, before shuffling down the hall after an old man with a walker and eternal urine aroma for a rousing game of bingo. His first thought isn’t what the fuck am I doing here? or did she seriously just grab my ass?, but instead, where did she put her dentures?

Revolted, he tugs his hat further over his ears and wonders when hugging sexually frustrated elderly women became the norm for him.

The nursing home reeks faintly of mothballs, but mostly overpowering floral perfume and the generic fresh cotton scent that comes from cheap, off brand candles. The discomfort that resonates in his bones would will him out the door, if it wasn’t for the fact that the line for free hugs has finally run dry and he doesn’t feel quite as fragile anymore. He has to pick his battles, and the embarrassment of being blatantly objectified by the elderly outweighs the horror of passing out due to starvation.

He really fucking hates his fucking life.

But sitting and crying about it won’t solve his problems, so he jabs his hands into his pockets and focuses on sucking it up instead of wallowing in his misery. A nurse looks on in pity, shuffling by in her tanuki-printed scrubs.

“How’re you feeling, big guy?” she asks, quirking a meticulously shaped brow. “Dizzy?”

[ read more!: or ao3 ]


Smell the cooking libel grease,
The oiled slander, pop a pain pill,
Wear your work clothes all night
Long, the blackened claws and steel-
Toed overalls–the canvas, burn-proof
Mask, that labors for the profit
Of another’s mothball reek;
That new car smell, the polished
Leather, stench of burl wood finish,

Chopped and drug by some poor schlep
With fogged-up, sticky safety-goggled
Short-stack pancake tow chain on the pickup,
Hacking blade, a hatchet, crowbar, straps,
A hammer, plumb bob, spirit level, ratchet
Drill press crosscut cough that never went away
And still refused to quit.

Darwin’s Theory of Breaking Up

Like everything else, it’s just a list
of questions with revised answers.

Where did they go? Where did
they come from? Is the evidence

in that necklace that everyone mistakes
for a Jesus fish but is actually a Darwin-legged

amphibian? Or did you leave them in last year’s sneakers
which are identical to this year’s sneakers

so people think you are exceptionally gentle
to your shoes but the truth is you replace clones

with clones when mothballs settle in your steps?
I’m asking about our mistakes, how they evolved.

Were they like the stack of papers we all have
in some corner of the apartment,

old Christmas cards and promissory notes,
a thing you don’t even see anymore but keep

adding to, routine as a washing machine or evolution,
an accumulation, a check you just keep mailing

as you cut your losses, month after month after change?
—  Hillary Kobernick, “Darwin’s Theory of Breaking Up”

“Everything here is so pristine, holy mother of mothballs,” Sabrina muttered to herself, rollerskating her way down the hall, making quick work of any stairs she came across, careful not to damage the electronic gadgets attached to her wrist. It was only when she was rounding the corner that she had to stumble back, shrieking a little. “Holysoz about that, man.”