So I've been live for, what, five hours now, and I've already got relatives calling me and telling me that they don't want me talking about them in my "diary." Jeez, if you can't talk about how fucked up your relatives are, what else is there? That's, like, half my shtick.
I suppose I could start with a little bit about me: I'm a 34 year-old free-lance reporter for a newspaper in Northwest Indiana (aka "The Region", hence part of the reason for the title of my blog). I do editing and research, too, but more research than editing since ... well, I don't know why, really. But I edit, in case anyone's interested. So anyway, yeah, I live in the Region, which, at its closest point, is about 20 minutes outside Chicago if you drive like an idiot and traffic's not backed up to Michigan. (I live further east, so it takes me 30 minutes driving like an idiot,
which I do as often as humanly possible.) I'm not going to say exactly where; those who need to know where I am do or will, and those who don't won't, and that's the way I like it. I mean, I'm not trying to be anonymous or anything, because that would be kind of pointless since my byline is in a fairly large newspaper every day (and sometimes even in the Chicago Sun-Times -- woo!) But peoples is crazy, and I'm perfectly happy to keep where I live private.
Lessee, what else would someone want to know about me? Um ... I'm single with two cats who are the loves of my life -- who needs men when you got cats, right? Just kidding ... sort of -- and, despite it being one of the most depressed areas in the country, I couldn't imagine living anywhere else except Northwest Indiana. Except for maybe New York, but until I win the Powerball or someone decides to bankroll me for the next 50 years, I don't see it happening.
How's that for starters?
Oh, whatEVER. 
