artwork for Ravi Mangla's writing

But Enough About Me
Ravi Mangla (@ravi_mangla)

Selected and arranged tweets, October 2011 to July 2012.

What is it called again when you spend all your time worrying that you have hypochondria? Because I think I have that. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, I find myself reciting Martin Scorsese’s name over and over in a Brooklyn accent. I can never quite reconcile my fear of heights with my love for spitting off tall buildings. People tell me I don’t look a day over forty, which is not something a twenty-four-year-old wants to hear.

I never leave the bar without asking at least one woman for her number. And by number, I mean the amount of money she needs to retire. I like dancing. I like parties. But quite frankly I find the combination a little cloying. My nostrils are the true window to my soul. When it comes to qualities I look for in a partner, a sense of humor is second only to a sense of smell.

Under emergency contacts I usually put down “glasses.” It’s a joke that becomes less funny with each passing heart attack. I was once trapped in an elevator for four hours with nothing to eat but a stocked room service cart and an aging bellhop. My poker tell is telling everyone at the table what cards I have. Mom Jeans was my nickname for most of high school. And for all of adulthood.

When I say I can speak fluent French, I mean that I can speak English in a mildly offensive French accent. (Why split hairs?) I suffer from a rare condition in which I can’t tell the difference between ventriloquist dolls and small children. My spirit animal is a dog with mange. I try to live every day as if it were my last, which explains the crippling depression. Sometimes I wonder how much different my life would be if I hadn’t eaten that battery when I was six.

My vision board doubles as a Ouija board. I’m disgusted by the kindness of strangers. I wasn’t allowed to have soda as a child, so I had to drink my scotch neat. I have a soft spot for fontanelles. I don’t understand pears. This is my last hurrah before I give up last hurrahs for good. Anything you have to say to my sock puppet, you can say in front of me.

Ravi Mangla’s Comments

Too many writers treat their resistance to new technologies as a badge of honor (*cough* Franzen *cough*). Instead of glibly dismissing platforms like Twitter, I wish more writers sought to engage with these technologies, repurpose them in interesting ways. Twitter presents a world of creative possibilities. I would love to see what someone like Gary Lutz or Lydia Davis could do with 140 characters.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 37 | Summer 2012 | The Twitter Issue