If you are reading this, I’m probably not dead.

I like to think my newspaper staff, who know something about me, are sufficiently prepared to respond to the tragedy by filling this space with a quaint and glorifying obituary about a conflicted and generous hero who died too young.

Or something like that.

No matter what other atrocities they chronicled in my published exploits, editorial and otherwise, they can no longer say disobeying the law did me in. I did not use fake identification to access the bars. I was within my rights to purchase the alcohol. For better or for worse, I was drinking legally.

Those words are so bitter, even more loathsome than the sour-sweet citrus-malt beverage I’m guzzling down my gullet as I type, because this is a funerary event. So long to my underage illicitness.

You will be remembered.

Except for the moments buried in holes, bored by chemicals into my consciousness.

So now I am 21, if I am anything at all, a number so abstract I can hardly consider its absurdity. After years of waiting, not really anticipating, I am at an age I never allowed for when imagining the future. The age of legitimacy.

I was born on a settee in a small house by a river in another part of the world, 21 years before yesterday. It seems so small and long ago, and unrelated to pouring unnatural amounts of beer into my flesh. But that is how I celebrate turning 21, as nearly everyone I know has already done, and that might be the most confusing part.

It is a moment of matriculation, tasting legal liquor for the first time, but it is something like drawing a map of charted waters. In many respects, I celebrate finally being allowed to do the same thing I did the night before. And the night before. And the night before. And the weekend before that. And so on.

Hooray. They let me go to class today too.

If I looked at my next birthday with as much reluctance, I would be turning 30. And I always figured I’d be damn proud to live that long.

Not so today. For one thing, who isn’t 21? My younger brother is. I took him to the bar with me. Everyone there was 21 too.

Now I’ve accomplished something. I’ve survived long enough to be able to do something that might kill me, and has probably already begun.

There was the morning I woke up on my lawn a few feet from my car door, which was swung open, and unable to understand why I was covered in dew.

There was the day I nearly got sunstroke pedaling around peddling beer to charity golfers, and making frequent use of my reservoir.

There was the night a few weeks ago, when someone smashed my head in on State Street, and I managed to tell the doctor how much I didn’t appreciate him stitching me up

There are other times I don’t remember. But after five years of recreational alcoholism, they tell me the show is on the phone. I’m being called up to the majors.

I say I’d rather retire.

With legitimacy comes questions. Tipping a bottle to my lips, I now have the responsibility to ask myself: Why?

If I am an adult, which this ridiculous age supposedly means I am, why would I tear myself apart chemically just for fun? If I am trusted to control my actions, why would I trade what’s left of my enthusiasm and ingenuousness for some cold, refreshing conformity?

It makes no sense. For all time, I have rationalized my private subversion of the justice system because it was just that. I like to drink because each acidic taste has the flavor of rebellion in it. It was more fun carrying bottles out in school bags than having my mom help load the fridge on prom night.

As soon as my parents trusted me, I broadened my perspective. I liked giving a wet wink to police officers.

Drinking was my own form of legitimization. I legitimized my autonomy.

Now the perspective is reversed, and I am subscribing instead of withdrawing from the universe. Now is my chance to cancel. On principle, continuing to drink would undermine the whole gritty, marginal social lifestyle which I’ve opted to let speak for me.

So I celebrate Birthday No. 21 with a fistful of ale, tipping cup to this college ritual and granting approval to my peers — by all means have one. On me even.

I need this night of passage to catalyze the sort of shift I desire, but after that (and a carefully planned ceremony next weekend, when a friend will join me in the ranks of The Aged) I’m done.

I’ve flipped the headline around.

Lars Russell ([email protected]) is a senior majoring in journalism and integrated liberal studies. He is editor in chief of The Badger Herald.