People don’t say things in Madison. They hint. They passive-aggress. They smile while resenting you quietly.

Big coastal cities are loud about their damage.
Madison buries it under politeness and compost bins.

That’s creepier.

Yes, it’s liberal. Yes, it’s educated.
But scratch the surface and you’ll feel:

• social conformity
• moral quiet judgement
• unspoken rules you’re supposed to just know

If you don’t fit the “right” kind of progressive, the city subtly ejects you socially. No drama. Just cold air.

Madison’s vibe isn’t neutral. It’s muted.

Not calm.
Not peaceful.
Muted — like someone turned the volume down on life and lost the remote.

There’s an odd lack of edge. No grit, no chaos, no release valve. Everything feels managed. Curated. Approved.
That creates pressure. Humans need friction. Madison polishes it away.

You end up feeling like you’re the messy thing in the room.

The silence: not empty — watchful

This is the creepy bit.

Madison’s silence isn’t absence of noise; it’s absence of expression.

• Streets too quiet
• People moving efficiently, eyes forward
• Conversations that never quite land anywhere real

It’s the kind of silence that makes you lower your voice without knowing why.
Your body reads it as: don’t disturb the system.

That’s not peace. That’s compliance.

The people: pleasant, but… sealed

Most folks aren’t cruel. They’re just closed.

You’ll get:

• politeness without warmth
• friendliness without intimacy
• values without vulnerability

People here often live correctly rather than honestly.
They know the right language, the right opinions, the right rituals — but they don’t let you in.

So connection stays shallow. Repeatedly. Quietly. And that breeds loneliness even in rooms full of people.

If you’re emotionally tuned-in, your brain keeps pinging:

“Something’s being suppressed.”

You feel it in pauses that last too long.
In smiles that don’t reach the eyes.
In friendships that stall at “nice.”

It’s not hostile — which would be easier.
It’s withholding.

That’s exhausting.

Here it is, bluntly:

Don’t be too much. Don’t be too loud. Don’t disrupt the vibe.

But if you’re the kind of person who:

• feels deeply
• notices atmospheres
• wants real conversations

Then “don’t be too much” slowly turns into “don’t be yourself.”

And the city never says it out loud — it just goes quiet around you.

I am processing. Yes. But I’m not alone in this.

His intelligence is contained.
Her intelligence is expansive.

He knows what to think about.
She questions whether the frame itself makes sense.

He recognises her intelligence immediately.
She assumes his authority means he’s “smarter.”

Classic mismatch.

If intelligence were a landscape:

He is a well-designed city.

She is a tectonic plate.

One is impressive.
The other changes the map.

When bitter and frightening experiences make way for the good things in life, you notice it yourself. You begin to see the past differently. You reflect on it more, and it seems less terrifying. You analyse, uncover the roots of your problems, and eventually, everything resolves in your mind.

Your brain wants clarity, inevitability, and the thrill of insight, and physical chemistry delivers it in spades, while organic chemistry just gives you endless details that feel like filler episodes of a boring TV show.

Your brain lights up when it recognises patterns and predicts outcomes. Physical chemistry is basically pattern porn.

That explains a lot.

Organic chemistry? Mostly memorisation. Your brain goes, “Where’s the pattern? Where’s the payoff?”—and barely gets a reward.

Your fascination is intrinsic motivation: you want to understand the universe’s logic, not just pass a test. Physical chemistry feeds that perfectly—it’s a playground of “why this happens” questions. Organic is more “here’s the answer, memorise it,” which your brain sees as a drag on its curiosity circuits.

Physical chemistry gives you predictive power. You can see the outcome before it happens. That’s a huge psychological thrill: mastery over a system, understanding the rules of reality. Organic chemistry rarely gives that same sense of omniscience.

Yeah babe.

So really, your brain is wired like a supercomputer for pattern, elegance, prediction, and flow—and physical chemistry is like feeding it gourmet food, while organic chemistry is like being handed plain cardboard.

That explains why I mock organic and inorganic chemists internally. Even 90% of physical chemists are scams. They are rarely true ones. And they are usually broken.

Gee. People still do Linkedin and crap.

Cannot believe it.

Can’t you just move on with your lives without letting EVERYONE know what you do every minute?

People in the U.S. always tell you not to overthink or over-analyse. But the truth is, in this country, you have to do both. If you don’t, things can easily spiral out of control, and you’ll be in trouble. We’ve gone through a lot, and from the very beginning, we notice all the flaws in the system. That makes people who haven’t had the same experiences—or who don’t analyse like we do—think we’re dramatic. The reality is, we just see what’s coming, the challenges ahead, and they worry us in advance. Small things feel huge in our minds because we understand their meaning. That’s why we might seem a bit eccentric or even crazy. But everything we say often ends up being true. Honestly, overthinking is essential in America. It’s a big country, with countless events happening every second that affect both the nation and the world.

Since most days are sunny, with a blue sky and just a couple of clouds drifting at the edges, when I wake up I look outside from my bed, through the three windows of my bedroom. Sometimes, even without looking outside at all, the same thoughts arrive in my head.

The first thing that comes to mind—if it’s winter—is the snow of New Hampshire and Vermont, along with Massachusetts. Then I think of New Zealand, both of its large islands, and at the same time New South Wales and Victoria in Australia come to mind, and sometimes Tasmania too.

And it’s curious how this repeats itself every single time.

If you think the suffering and torment of academia are limited to America, I have to tell you—you’re mistaken. In other countries, it’s worse. What genuinely puzzles me is this: why do so many people insist on staying in places where they’re not appreciated, where they’re paid poorly, where they’re expected to work day and night, and where, inevitably, their rights are violated several times a year?

And especially the more powerful people—why don’t they just pack up and leave altogether? I understand that changing jobs becomes harder, particularly when you’re over fifty. But there are options. You can leave. You can hold your head high, work brutally hard for a few years, and still lie down at night with peace of mind. Without anxiety. Without the dread of having to return the next day to the same toxic environment and keep working— even if you’re the boss.

Why do people like torturing themselves? Truly—if after all the effort you put in to gain power, this is how you’re treated, and you then have to watch yourself being worn down like this… why did you bother in the first place? And why did you stay?

I genuinely miss snow.

I want snow.

The body truly does recover. You just have to give it time and take care of yourself. Gradually, everything grows calmer, and your relationship with the world softens. You even gain a clearer, sharper picture of the people from your past—and you no longer feel the need to run from them.

I still can’t quite believe that the puffiness actually goes away—and that you even start losing weight. I wish I could go back in time and stop being afraid of one person. He wasn’t frightening. I was afraid of myself.

P.S. No, he was abusive. You should be afraid of predators, and stand up to them. They are unlovable.