It’s officially been my brithday for about an hour. I’m 33 years old. I’m pretty sure that this means absolutely nothing except that it’s been a year to the day since my last birthday, and that it’s been 33 years to the day since I was born.
I’ve been reading in small bits, a three-year-old book called The End of Time. Julian B. Barbour is trying to convince me that time, at least the way we percieve it, actually does not exist. I love this stuff, and always have. Physics, Cosmology, and Theories of Everything have always fascinated me, and if I weren’t working on computers (which have also always fascinated me), I think it’s quite likely that I’d be a cosmologist or theoretical physicist.
But I don’t think that this has anything to do with my birthday either.
What I do know is that I’m going to take the evening off and treat myself to a really nice dinner out, and maybe a movie.
I also know that during my time in existence on this planet, there was never a moment when men had not already set foot on the Moon. This, I think is important, at least to me.
For my brother, there has never been a time when human beings had never sent a craft to the surface of Mars.
For my niece, there has never been a time when the Worldwide Web was not ubiquitous.
For her daughter, I’m pretty certain that nearly anything is possible.
(And though I know I’m already a few days overdue, I’m not going to do a Frontier screenshot today. You’ll have to wait for Oct 2, 2002.)