babyteeth winter '25 issue 3

Hi!

Babyteethers really rose to the occasion with this one. As you know, heat rises, so this issue must be on FIRE! Some may say babyteethers are the cream of the crop. Or the feet of the foot! And by this toeken, walk your FEET on over to our termly WORKSHOP 12-3 THIS SATURDAY in SAYLES 252! Drop in any time and stay as long as you want. We will be creating a physical zine together with a panoply of art supplies, vegan chocolate chip cookies, and pure sincere love. Suck it up! (the cookies and the fun)

That’s all for now, adiana “why do they call it” contreras sofia “of in . . .” durdag lily “oven” akre olivia “of out hot eat the food?” ho

editors:

ayla faitelson

nicky pierce ralph

adiana contreras

lily akre

max votruba

violet pody nadia hutson

eliza farley

sofia durdag

STEWIE GOON! contributers: STEWIE GOON! dashiell tidrick

adiana contreras

billy bratton owen roth

the ore barons

eliza farley tyler chodera

olivia ho sofia durdag

eye dee kay, man. eye dee even SEE. say whatever you want about it. this piece of art is:

>beautiful funny stupid just please don’t say you don’t get it. eye don’t see. but i care too much for you not to.

DASHIELL TIDRICK

very

cold in our house

‘did you tell her we lie in seperate beds?’

inhuman was it that then too when i lied across the bedtable and peeled my fingertips open?

am i the only person worried about what counts as art when it’s stuff like this, and i am just TWH (typing while high) and have nothing really to sustain myself except for a shelf of old cards and letters cut open and so anyways, all of a sudden it’s just you’re blowing bong smoke out the window and trying to hold your breath when you pass certain hallways or the other. every time i go to work i think about the panic attack i had there and when my heart was pounding and paining. I called my mom and she told me hang up, call campus security, then they will call 911. uncle tony was on the highway over before i took a breath for air and the ambulance driver says look kid it happens to me too, and you say: oh.

here are dashiell’s toes

An Economic Catastrophe

Ore or orphan

Which is more imp-ore-tant?

eliza farley

The Room That We Were In The Other Day

For the sake of time, I’ll have to summarize Developments of late, but where it starts Is in that ornate room of pinned-down butterflies Framed under glass. There, somewhere near my heart, A vital muscle in an instant ceased to hold. I felt in my extremities a creeping cold,

That, at the time, I didn’t even realize Would soon consume me, but it now has been Three days and half a night since it materialized, And it has grown. I’d say in terms of pins-and-needles, I have never felt them worse before. I cannot seem to move my body anymore.

Do you recall the room? Just now the butterflies Began to move, as if meaning to tease Me. Pins popped out. The glass then dematerialized, Allowing them to swarm and bite like fleas. All this is just to say that if you can, as soon As possible, please come and drag me from this room

owen roth

how is your comps going? how is your comps going?

is eroticism a historiographical method. is mysticism. are dreams. sacrality is an ocean, a boundless ocean without shore. i imagine myself ﬂoating or drowning in this ocean, sinking to the bottom where the profane must lay in silty quiet. thursday night i am sleeping in somebody else’s bed and have feverish, muttering dreams that perhaps if i lived in the ﬁfteenth century i would have interpreted as a divine force speaking to me in the tight close dark. except i live now and i

i am trying desperately to get to the bottom of divine love. i look for it everywhere. my sister. jstor. but it lays beneath something. it is in my eye and beyond it. in the ﬁfteenth century i would have known without a doubt that there are two worlds—the invisible and the visible, the felt and the known. and there is a barrier, an isthmus, but it is permeable, thinner than the width of my palm, if you are a demon, god (in all various forms), or have a perfect shining love under your skin. is love in history, or only echoes. are the echoes constructivist or positivist. if i had lived in the ﬁfteenth century last saturday, i might have understood drunkenness as a metaphor for the ecstasy of divine union, a sip of heaven. oh i wonder what intoxication feels like when you can taste god, and not somebody else’s hamms on somebody else’s mouth. is my paper compromised by this failure of understanding. i think yes probably.

i bury my face in my hands and i truly think all troubles can be reduced to wanting yet not having. how can i cite that. wanting is rapture, if it is of the right kind. is wanting a thesis.