I’m 21 and I look twelve. Not only do I get carded, but the cashiers always laugh at me when I put beer on the conveyer belt, expecting that I’m some twelve year old with balls, and about 1/3 of the time they bring a manager over to verify my license is correct. I’m getting more than enough justice for the both of us, I promise.
Happy Birthday, fetus!!
(Pssst, Scout! That means he’s buying… I’m sure we can find him if we try. I get out of work at 4.)
Cheers! snogs thoroughly, toasts with champagne 21’s a good year, isn’t it? 
Ha! You haven’t seen the inside of my wallet. I can afford just enough alcohol to remind myself I’m in a bar. I’m only getting drunk if I can convince my friends to buy.