Remember the glory of Butler Archetypes? We missed them on Bwog so we’re bringing them back with an eye for College Walk (and being incredibly liberal in our definition of “College Walk” such that it basically constitutes anything between Butler and Low). First up, we asked Features Editor Alexander Pines to give us the chain-smoking intellectual (because he’s taking U.S. Intellectual History so #expert), with illustrative help by Leila Mgaloblishvili.

It’s cold, it’s grey, you’re a little terrified of sliding halfway across campus on your face courtesy of the aesthetics-at-the-expense-of-walkability granite and brick surface covering most of our cosy Ivy Bubble, and all of a sudden you can’t see a thing.

Don’t worry, it’s just a chain-smoking intellectual.

Wait, is that a whiff of clove you smell? They haven’t sold those in years, right?

He brushes damp hair out of his eyes with fingerless gloves, adjusting his beanie and pulling out one of his headphones. Yeezus or a Noam Chomsky podcast, of course. “They repackaged cloves into cigars. It’s basically the same thing,” he says, pulling out a nearly empty (but still pristine on the outside) pack to show you. American Spirits must be too mainstream.

“Aren’t you late to class?” you ask, temporarily wishing that you could steal his maroon colored Docs for the traction (you’re a little surprised he’s wearing them post “Wrecking Ball,” but maybe Miley’s so far below his consciousness that he hasn’t seen the video yet).

He smiles, adjusting the strap of his leather messenger bag–bulging with Foucault, “good ol’ Judy,” and that Banksy book you saw on your Cool Friend’s coffee table a few weeks ago. “It’s philosophy,” he says breezily. “I’m there in spirit.”

You leave, bolting up the steps to make it to lecture in time–your spirit form hasn’t figured out how to take notes yet. As you start moving toward Avery, you turn back–he was cute, after all. All you see is a cloud of fog, effervescing like so much bullshit into the cloudy afternoon. On your way home from class, you pause to see if he’s still there. There’s nothing but a crumpled pile of cigarette butts and a few discarded pages from a Moleskine. Maybe next time.