Earth, the (oblately, more or less) spheroid planet of rock and metal and water upon (and slightly above and slighty under) which we all live, revolves around our Sun, a blazing nuclear power plant in the sky, the diameter of which equals a hundred Earths, the surface area of which equals twelve thousand Earths, and the volume of which equals a whopping one million three-hundred thousand Earths. Upon it, for billions of years, a majestic dance of molecules and fundamental forces has formed life. One of these life forms — which that life form’s scientists classify Homo sapiens, in the language they call Latin — developed cultures. One of those cultures, the one, incidentally, in which this specimen — the Author — happens, by merest accident, to live, has a habit, once every Solar Revolution of their planet, to celebrate and acknowledge the date on which each individual was born (they also celebrate and acknowledge, once every revolution, their planet itself, for having achieved the incredible feat of yet another revolution about its star). The particular date on which the Author writes these words, by no coincidence, is also the date on which, twenty-four Solar Revolutions ago, the Author’s body had completed — by no conscious choice or deliberate action on the part of the Author — the vastly complicated origami folding and differentiation of cells (that we call embryology) inside the womb of his maternal guardian. For all the vastness of space and time and chance, the Author’s peers finds this momentous occasion — the birth of the Author — an event to be celebrated.

So let me not be accused of vanity when I say, “Happy Birthday to me!”

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