urther; they’re the damsels who evaded braces post-kindergarten and diet pills post-secondary school, they’re the bronzed faces with a sleazy overkill of eyeliner, irrational cosmetics and mascara, who sidle and prance, barefacedly cock their eyes at rippled butts, are sinful pioneers of the eerie ‘Teresa’ effect, sport efficacious amounts of a deodorant that either Jane Austen wore to a ball-room affair with Thomas Hardy north of Wessex or that which BLet's talk about overshadows. Or rather, the overshadowed. It is a strange word, overshadow is. Impressive, but strange nonetheless. Impressive for haply how semantically appropriate it is, and strange, maybe because it is seamlessly literal. Taking the elliptical course back to the point, the point being a cute synthesis of both the impressive and the strange, we need an understanding of the overshadowed.

You’ve seen them around campus, or rather, ironically, you haven’t seen them around campus. They’re the non-entities. They’re the boys with unnaturally lean postures, a lackadaisical style of walking that though is nothing like a swagger but seems more like a crooked ancestor of the trudge, to add to the moronic masquerade, pop in a crabby, dry, unpretentious hairdo chronically bleached under operative sunbeams, a camouflaged squawk being scandalously passed of as a baritone, a marigold-shedding overtly effeminate smile and the pricey coup-de-grace, the last hieroglyphic handprints of misery, a plaid shirt drawn into a bun-hugging jeans that went out of vogue in the swinging seventies. The sum is a live and walking Frankensteinian faux-pas.

The Hegelian antitheses to these that make up the homogenous social order are the plagued surplus that suffers from the highly contagious ‘dude’ and ‘stud’ factor. They’re the lot who adore the chink in their biceps and the sweet definition of their abdominal musculature, the ones who wear semi-translucent shirts that bare the tanned, nippled tips of their evilly voluptuous man-breasts, these are also those who smear greasy, unctuous gunk onto their skulls and comb slit-like crevasses into the shoddy fabric of their hair, its elongation being a tribute to the avant-garde of Rapunzel and Rip-van-winkle.

For the ladies, the meter topples over further; they’re the damsels who evaded braces post-kindergarten and diet pills post-secondary school, they’re the bronzed faces with a sleazy overkill of eyeliner, irrational cosmetics and mascara, who sidle and prance, barefacedly cock their eyes at rippled butts, are sinful pioneers of the eerie ‘Teresa’ effect, sport efficacious amounts of a deodorant that either Jane Austen wore to a ball-room affair with Thomas Hardy north of Wessex or that which Br

, ironically, you haven’t seen them around campus. They’re the non-entities. They’re the boys with unnaturally lean postures, a lackadaisical style of walking that though is nothing like a swagger but seems more like a crooked ancestor of the trudge, to add to the moronic masquerade, pop in a crabby, dry, unpretentious hairdo chronically bleached under operative sunbeams, a camouflaged squawk being scandalously passed of as a baritone, a marigold-shedding overtly effeminate smile and the pricey coup-de-grace, the last hieroglyphic handprints of misery, a plaid shirt drawn into a bun-hugging jeans that went out of vogue in the swinging seventies. The sum is a live and walking Frankensteinian faux-pas.

The Hegelian antitheses to these that make up the homogenous social order are the plagued surplus that suffers from the highly contagious ‘dude’ and ‘stud’ factor. They’re the lot who adore the chink in their biceps and the sweet definition of their abdominal musculature, the ones who wear semi-translucent shirts that bare the tanned, nippled tips of their evilly voluptuous man-breasts, these are also those who smear greasy, unctuous gunk onto their skulls and comb slit-like crevasses into the shoddy fabric of their hair, its elongation being a tribute to the avant-garde of Rapunzel and Rip-van-winkle.

For the ladies, the meter topples over further; they’re the damsels who evaded braces post-kindergarten and diet pills post-secondary school, they’re the bronzed faces with a sleazy overkill of eyeliner, irrational cosmetics and mascara, who sidle and prance, barefacedly cock their eyes at rippled butts, are sinful pioneers of the eerie ‘Teresa’ effect, sport efficacious amounts of a deodorant that either Jane Austen wore to a ball-room affair with Thomas Hardy north of Wessex or that which B

ng overtly effeminate smile and the pricey coup-de-grace, the last hieroglyphic handprints of misery, a plaid shirt drawn into a bun-hugging jeans that went out of vogue in the swinging seventies. The sum is a live and walking Frankensteinian faux-pas.

The Hegelian antitheses to these that make up the homogenous social order are the plagued surplus that suffers from the highly contagious ‘dude’ and ‘stud’ factor. They’re the lot who adore the chink in their biceps and the sweet definition of their abdominal musculature, the ones who wear semi-translucent shirts that bare the tanned, nippled tips of their evilly voluptuous man-breasts, these are also those who smear greasy, unctuous gunk onto their skulls and comb slit-like crevasses into the shoddy fabric of their hair, its elongation being a tribute to the avant-garde of Rapunzel and Rip-van-winkle.

For the ladies, the meter topples over further; they’re the damsels who evaded braces post-kindergarten and diet pills post-secondary school, they’re the bronzed faces with a sleazy overkill of eyeliner, irrational cosmetics and mascara, who sidle and prance, barefacedly cock their eyes at rippled butts, are sinful pioneers of the eerie ‘Teresa’ effect, sport efficacious amounts of a deodorant that either Jane Austen wore to a ball-room affair with Thomas Hardy north of Wessex or that which B

in their biceps and the sweet definition of their abdominal musculature, the ones who wear semi-translucent shirts that bare the tanned, nippled tips of their evilly voluptuous man-breasts, these are also those who smear greasy, unctuous gunk onto their skulls and comb slit-like crevasses into the shoddy fabric of their hair, its elongation being a tribute to the avant-garde of Rapunzel and Rip-van-winkle.

For the ladies, the meter topples over further; they’re the damsels who evaded braces post-kindergarten and diet pills post-secondary school, they’re the bronzed faces with a sleazy overkill of eyeliner, irrational cosmetics and mascara, who sidle and prance, barefacedly cock their eyes at rippled butts, are sinful pioneers of the eerie ‘Teresa’ effect, sport efficacious amounts of a deodorant that either Jane Austen wore to a ball-room affair with Thomas Hardy north of Wessex or that which B

urther; they’re the damsels who evaded braces post-kindergarten and diet pills post-secondary school, they’re the bronzed faces with a sleazy overkill of eyeliner, irrational cosmetics and mascara, who sidle and prance, barefacedly cock their eyes at rippled butts, are sinful pioneers of the eerie ‘Teresa’ effect, sport efficacious amounts of a deodorant that either Jane Austen wore to a ball-room affair with Thomas Hardy north of Wessex or that which Britney Spears selectively adhered to while attending the same, deigningly demand dignity but deter deserving it, irrespective of a tank-top or a suit, make petty with the first hint of cleavage and sully altogether with the final brunt of a presaged naked waistline giveaway, model ostentatious earrings among other ornamentation that often seem likely borrowed off an ornate wedding tabernacle, and pitifully sometimes, give vehement, new-fangled dimensions to the ‘b’ word.

These are the stratums of the liberal male and the female. Nothing exceeds these provisos. Everything or everyone exterior to these norms are either peripheral or tangential counterparts of the partial same. This is a presiding state of homogeneity. Within this state, we overlook the passive, reluctant victims; we forgo overshadows.

The overshadowed have little to choose from. Options for them are at the branched ends of a dichotomy, either they resort to be loyal sidekicks, or miserably succumb to being Lost Souls. Sidekicks and Lost Souls – we could call it the ‘Batman and Robin’ phenomena vis-?-vis the “Ghost in the attic” epidemic. The symptoms of both are rather typically the same, perhaps because their origin is one – a particularly defined lack of individuality. A bit on sidekicks. Every institutionalized body has its own private slot of beautiful lasses and handsome lads. For the deprived lot who haven’t seen a beautiful girl, they’re the rare pedigree with a rich, mellow soprano for a voice, auburn locks and curvaceous tresses that furl and lace around a subliminally oval head, menacingly gorgeous pupils that dilate at her volition, spindly hands that dangle like the slack arms of a palm tree at the brush of a draft, legs that sculpt down from the arse as if willed by Michelangelo, mountainous, even bosoms tha