The black and white photograph of a boy on the milk carton stares back at me. The text beneath it tells me he was last seen wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and holding onto a Hollywood dream. I know I’ve seen him. The boy was me.

Age progression: 25 years old.

What is it about youth that makes me emo? Besides the dreams that have had to be put on hiatus, I also miss the joy in crossing milestones. The first day of senior year, the first taste of alcohol, the first time you did anything with a girl. At age 25, what is left? Kids? Anal sex?

No, I hate kids.

I say we invent additional milestones so that aging can once again be something you looked forward to, and not purely a downward spiral. It doesn’t even have to sexual in nature. How about we limit the penguin area in zoos to those above 30?

Five years from now, I wait anxiously outside the penguin room, counting down the seconds. When the clock finally hits midnight, I jump up and cheer, excited to see penguins for the first time. I take a step inside, but the security guard stops me. ID please?

I proudly show him my card, and he congratulates me. He tells me he still remembers the first time he saw a penguin. Good times, he assures me.

And then: woah, penguins.

They’re all so short and fat! Haha! This is the best night ever.

The next day, my Facebook profile picture shows me throwing a peace sign, standing beside a penguin. All my 29 year old friends tell me I’m so lucky, and I tell them it’s not like they have to wait much longer.

Then as I log off and go to bed, I realize I can’t wait until I turn 40, when I get to hug a sloth.