We all know that aging is everyone’s favorite activity. It’s also common knowledge that one birthday is looked forward to more than any other: the 21st birthday. Too bad I already had that. Here’s how I expect my 22nd birthday this Saturday to compare to last year’s, where my alcohol consumption was understandable and less sad.

21st birthday, Thursday, October 1, 2015
9 a.m.: The 21st birthday festivities begin in London, England. Mimosas are made — and chugged — with friends from the flat next door. Time to walk to class.
22nd birthday, Saturday, October 1, 2016
9 a.m.: Asleep. Hungover.

21st birthday, 11 a.m.: Give a presentation about James Bond. Sneak off to the bathroom. Pour whiskey into my coffee.
22nd birthday, 11 a.m.: Alarm goes off. I’m on the floor. Remember I’m in Los Angeles. Go to make coffee. Forget the grounds. It’s just water.

21st birthday, 1 p.m.: Break between classes. Run across the street to Sainsbury’s, a convenience store. Buy a Coke. Pour more whiskey into it. Chuckle to myself at how much I like whiskey. I like it a lot.
22nd birthday, 1 p.m.: Finish my fourth episode of “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” Realize I should probably celebrate my birth. Heads to the convenience store in the same clothes I was wearing the night before. Buys wine. Spills a third of it. Chugs the rest.

21st birthday, 2:30 p.m.: Falls asleep in class. We were watching a movie. There are worse ways to fall asleep.
22nd birthday. 2:30 p.m.: Vomits violently. Eats a Nutri-Grain bar. Cries. Falls asleep. Again, on the floor. I told you there are worse ways.

21st birthday, 5 p.m.: Casually sips a hard cider. Plays some jazz music. Cook a nice meal of steak and asparagus. Feeling like a million bucks.
22nd birthday, 5 p.m.: Wakes up by the pool. Don’t know how I got there. There’s bird poop on my shirt — which is in the pool. As is my phone. Dignity, however, is nowhere to be found. Feeling like one of those worthless fake million dollar bills.

21st birthday, 7 p.m.: Pregame in my honor at the flat next door. My entrance is applauded and everyone tells me how funny and handsome I am. This happened, I swear. Please? It’s my birthday.
22nd birthday, 7 p.m.: I’ve recovered. Swear my old ways are behind me. I give myself a pep talk in the bathroom: I’m 22 now. That’s 11 times 2. My favorite time. It’ll be a good year. This all makes sense to me, but everyone else thinks I’m still drunk. I’m not. I think.

21st birthday, 9:00 p.m.: Leave to hit the pubs. I can say “pubs” because it was London. I’m so cool and cultured.
22nd birthday, 9 p.m.: Leave to hit the bars. Order a whiskey and a water. Learning from my mistakes. Remember to check Facebook notifications. Ignore them. Try to live in the moment. I’m so deep and philosophical.

21st birthday, 11 p.m.: Spend 5 minutes in the bathroom recording a video to myself talking about how drunk I am. Then realize I never pressed record.
22nd birthday, 11 p.m.: Spend 5 minutes in the bathroom recording a video to myself talking about how drunk I am. Then realize I’m an idiot.

21st birthday, 1 a.m.: Walk home. Argue with a girl who insists it’s not my birthday anymore. That’s a weird cause to take up. I understand how time works. But let me celebrate.
22nd birthday, 1 a.m.: Uber home. Argue with my driver, who insists it’s not my birthday anymore. What’s wrong with the world? Don’t answer that.

21st birthday. 1:30 a.m.: Take care of the too-drunk person who’s not me. Sweet deal. Go to sleep. It was a good day.
22nd birthday. 1:30 a.m.: Stare at the moon from the balcony. Feel old. I’m not. Contemplate existence. Realize I should celebrate my birth every day — without the alcohol-induced floor sleep, though. I’ll just journal, instead. But it can wait until tomorrow. I’m going to have some pudding.

Ian McCourt is a senior television/radio/film major who just wants to be 25 already so he can rent a car. You can follow him on twitter @OrderInMcCourt or reach him at iwmccour@syr.edu.