This is 20

Today I enter the crusade that is my early 20s. Before I reached this milestone, I imagined my 20s to be a glamorous adult adventure where I suddenly starting drinking mimosas and understanding taxes. 

But according to like 6 million Thought Catalog articles and the lady who waxes my eyebrows at Benefit, your early 20s really suck.

Benefit Brow Specialist: "I would never go back to like 21. It was awful, my boyfriend lost like 6 teeth playing intramural hockey and everything was so confusing".

(Slightly overweight Norshore mom trying on Hoola bronzer chimes in with something irrelevant about her first unsuccessful marriage)

Benefit Brow Specialist: " You just have no idea who you are or what you want, so nothing seems to go right. I would totally relive 26, that's when I really started getting my shit together and got a real apartment."

I'm sorry, edgy brow specialist with an arty tattoo of a bleeding dove on your left wrist, but I refuse to believe that things are about to get worse for me. I'm going to ignore your comment about "a real apartment" (and just assume you were living in a Depression-era Kit Kitteredge attic room), and focus on the fact you're telling me my life is about to go down the toilet.

Are you telling me 19 is my highpoint? Seriously? Recently, I have eaten a patty melt at 10 a.m. and lost two separate Northface jackets at two separate dive bars. The only person who texts me regularly is my Grandma Cyndi. And most of these texts are either pictures she takes of herself, or about the fact she believes tequila has hallucinogenic effects when you sip it in the moonlight.

I'll tell you my highpoint. My highpoint was when I was six. My sixth birthday was my golden birthday, and I was so adorable I could've been one of those stuck- up kids on Out of the Box.

My birthday was Western themed. I wore little red cowgirl boots, a flirty jean vest, and a devilish smile. My mom transformed our garage into my favorite restaurant at the time, a refined Joliet staple named Texas Roadhouse.  My mom rented a dance floor, barrels of peanuts for us to crack open on the floor, and ponies for us to ride.

Yes, there were PONIES at my golden birthday party. I turned six years old, danced to Cotton Eye Joe, and rode a magnificent spotted pony.  I was showered with presents and everyone in St. Paul the Apostle's first grade class wanted to be my bathroom buddy for weeks afterwards. I think can pinpoint this party as the moment I officially became a bad bitch.

 ^Me dressed as a character from Django Unchained

I'm determined that this is what my 20s will bring me. I'm not going to be some weird Hannah Horvath character with misshapen boobs and an all-ramen diet.  I am going to climb out of this current pit of despair, and turn into this six-year-old diva once again. I'm going to grow up, figure out how to send something via UPS, and ride off into the sunset wearing a jean vest atop a magnificent spotted pony.