“Aerodynamically, the bumblebee should not be able to fly. But the bumblebee doesn’t know this, so he keeps on flying anyway.”

In this case, I am the bumblebee. And flying? Well, that’s journalism.

Because, you see, I’m the poster child for People Who Shouldn’t Go Into Journalism. Let’s face it:  Someone who needs 75 mg of Zoloft to get through the day just shouldn’t be in a profession where initiating conversation with strangers and pressing deadlines are the norm.

Someone should have sat me down back when I decided to be a journalism major and told me, “Look, why don’t you take up something a little more suited to your, ah…demeanor. Like basket weaving. But journalism? No dice.”

Fortunately for me (and unfortunately for the rest of the world), that didn’t happen. By the time I’d figured out that I was less-than-suited for the world of journalism — personality-wise, anyway — it was too late. To ask me to back out of journalism would have been like asking me to back out of breathing — it just wasn’t going to happen.

So that’s when I decided that if I was going to make a living out of something that was absolutely terrifying to me, I was going to jump in head first — and do it well, dammit.

And here we are.

I’m 23. Journalist living the dream on Pittsburgh’s South Side (or trying to). I want to cover cops ‘n courts someday.

I love this city and hockey and history and Chardonnay and laughing when I probably shouldn’t.
Serial Tweeter with a severe hockey problem.

Follow me.

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