Well, good riddance twenty-two, here’s to being twenty-three. If ever Blink 182 set out to produce influential, addictive pop-punk anthems whose pierced lips and suburban California-following laughed loyally in the face of the decades as they passed and shared smokey-eye-ridden glances at fleeting genres and bizarre collaborations which came and went – I give you the boy band, white jeans & triple denim – Travis Barker & co. I take my DC emblazoned cap off to you. Over the course of twenty years – if you didn’t feel old already, I’m guessing you do now – the trio shook off the pop-punk shackles which left so many other bands resigned to annual Warped Tour appearances to break the mainstream mould, amassing an impressive six studio albums with their seventh due to reach our ears this February. What’s more, between them Blink 182 have survived a three-year hiatus, countless heavier side projects and walked away from a plane crash which claimed four other lives. To put it simply: Barker, Hoppus and DeLonge are pretty much pop-punk Gods.

If this is to be the case I put forward, then by all admissions, when I turn twenty three later this week all I can look forward to is a lonely twelve months of cats and vat loads of chocolate chunk ice-cream and consequently spanx and over-sized jumpers. Think Bridget Jones, only without the drug smuggling stint and treacly Colin Firth ending. With the promise of Ben and Jerry and obscene amounts of wool on the coming of age horizon,  I’ve found myself ‘age-dropping’ shall we say. Said pass time largely involves reminding your audience you’re still twenty-two whenever the opportunity presents itself. In fact, to hell with it, there ain’t no rule book here – let’s throw caution to the wind, the moment need not even be opportune:

“How was your weekend?” Er yeah, it was good thanks. I just spent it like any other twenty-two-year-old really. Just caught up with the girls and went for a few drinks. I was twenty-two sheets to the wind on Saturday night though – god job I have youth on my side else the headache would be a lot worse.

“Have you done with my The Hunger Games book yet?”  Er, no, not yet. I got a little sidetracked after Katniss and co. ended up back in the arena for what felt like the twenty-secondth time, so I’ve picked up the copy of Catch 22 I got for Christmas for a little light relief…

“Have you taken out a loan in the last ten years? Do you feel you may have been mis-sold a Payment Protection Insurance Policy?” No I don’t think I have actually, although thank you all the same for your somewhat relentless, unwavering concern regarding the state of my payment policies. I’m only twenty-two, so you’d have to speak to the bill payer, mainly my dad, because like I said; I’m only twenty two and therefore don’t have any real financial responsibilities yet. Still early twenties, you know, loooooong way to go before I start needing any PPI. Twenty-two, that’s me.

So before I’ve even turned twenty-three I’m displaying several unnerving symptoms all pointing in the direction of ‘crazy cat lady’. But I refuse to throw down the gauntlet just yet. Of course I’m entirely hesitant to question Blink 182’s anthemic lyricism, largely for fear of an international social-media backlash from rioting groups of heavily pierced, eye-liner-ridden and hormone-fueled teenagers, and hey, I love Blink 182 just as much as any other Kerrang-subscribing, Myspace-whoring 1990’s kid. But perhaps they just weren’t entirely accurate. Perhaps there is a way to avoid this apparent ‘quarter life crisis’ after all. I don’t have any certified answers of course, nor am I speaking from experience – there’s still a week to go, I’m still TWENTY-TWO need I must remind you – but I really ought to prepare. I need to have an action plan should I turn twenty-three and I find myself outcast from my friendship groups because overnight they simultaneously united in their appreciation for Blink 182 and their dislike for my twenty-three-year-old self:

1. Don’t pay attention to the fact that you’re over half way to twenty-five, which means you’re pretty much thirty, meaning you’re halfway to sixty and everyone knows it’s only coach trips and boules from there on out.

2. Ignore the pact you made with your best friend when you were sixteen, that if you weren’t married by twenty-five you’d marry each other. SERIOUSLY?! It was a spit shake too, pretty much like the Binding Spell, which means I’m… Oh lord.

3. Join a gym. Or take a yoga class. Or do something, anything, to prepare for the carb-ridden months ahead.

4. Refrain from joining a dating website. I REFUSE TO PAY TO FIND LOVE. Especially on a site with fish in the name.

5. Travel. Now’s the perfect time before real life and real responsibilities come a’running. You’re likely to have just graduated and if you’re like me, that’s stuck in some tedious part-time job whilst you get work experience together and figure out what you want to do, travelling would surely be a worthwhile opportunity to expand those horizons.

So that’s my plan for the upcoming, celebratory days ahead, as I await the abundance of gifts and chocolate my beautiful friends will no doubt be sending my way – because you guys are the best. And, because you’re all so wonderful, I have full confidence that our friendship will stand the test of turning twenty-three. Right? RIGHT? GUYS?!