I’ve been seeing this number all around me lately.

It was my area code for the first quarter-century of my life.

My current area code follows me a lot more. It shows up everywhere. So does my third area code, which is attached to the phone I gave to Mom. And my birth date.

I figure these are signs of something. Like deja vu is, to me, a sign that I’m right where I am supposed to be.

I just got a call from the 412 area today. I ignored it because it’s usually just my college seeking a donation. But this was from a favorite old pizza place, and I ended up ordering wedding soup and some ‘za.

This place was such a part of my childhood. It’s near where Mr. Rogers lived. Every New Year’s Eve, Gram would get corned beef and latkes from Rhoda’s and a pizza from this place.

It was so nice talking to the owner after all this time. And telling her how much her family was a part of MY family rituals for so long.

I’m glad they are still there. And when I heat up my goodies on Thursday, I will think of all my people who aren’t here but who would be happy that I will carry on what was such a simple but cherished tradition.

412, represent.

ALSO, I have another reason to love 412 … the date.

I gave my final fuck.

Seriously. I used to read someone for amusement. And even though they tried so desperately to hurt me, it just ended up being pathetic and sad and kind of funny.

But I woke up and said no more. And just like when I quit smoking (was it seven or eight years ago?), I can breathe again.

I will do what I always did — post my own thing and expect to be mocked.

But here’s the funny part. I would take hiatuses from their insanity, then go catch up.

And they would be BITCHING that I was clearly reading their shit. When, honest to dog, I was just posting whatever popped into my head.

Like the universe was telling me, “Don’t ask. Just write this.”

In any event, this time I really don’t care to hear what sad response is posted. I don’t want to see it, and if you don’t want to see what I am up to, I suggest you look away.

I always said, if the nasty biatch would just shut her fucking face, I would too. But she is incapable of shutting her fucking face.

Maybe I am too. Shit, I KNOW I am incapable. At least, when it comes to her.

So fuck her. Go fucking post shit like “must be nice to not have kids” where your kids can read it.

You wonder why shit happens to you that you clearly bring on yourself.

I’m sorry for my infinitesimal part in your woes. But Jesus, shut up already.

I’ll just be over here fixing my shit and getting out from under the bad vibes you’ve sent my way. And enjoying my free will to leave.

4/12. It’s a good number/day.

Might just end up being the fucking best.

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