Your job is a dead end. Your relationships are a mess. And your mom won’t stop pressuring you to move back home and go to dental school. Are you having a quarter-life crisis? Or is this urge to build an urban chicken coop on your roof actually the thing that’s going to change it all for the better? Take this quiz to find out.

How old are you?

Ugh. No comment. Last month, the Urban Outfitters cashier gave me side eye for buying a crop top and I’m still not over it. Age is just a number, but in chicken years, I’m 228!

How would you define your current relationship status?

Single and ready to mingle! Why, do you know someone? The last three dudes I met on Bumble ghosted me during the first date. I don’t let my relationships define me. I’m more concerned with getting my mitts on some sweet farm fresh eggs.

Bon Iver just popped up on your Spotify playlist. How do you react?

Instant tears. Where is my life is headed.? It feels like I’m floating in space, untethered to anything or anyone. Drifting into a deep, dark, unknown abyss while my peers pass me by. Instant tears when I think about my soon to be hen house. I read in Poultry Quarterly that chickens produce more, better quality eggs when listening to beautiful music.

You saw on social media that your ex is getting married this weekend. What do you do?

Spent the week leading up to it feeling bad about myself and rehashing what went wrong in our relationship. Congratulate him and send him and his new bride some farm fresh eggs.

Do you like your job?

I mean, I’m able to spin it on social media to make it look awesome, but in reality I’m getting coffee for people five years younger than me and crying in the bathroom on the regular. It’s not perfect, but I’m still young and have to pay my dues. Having personal side projects helps keep me motivated. Especially when they involve cute lil’ chickens.

How do you like your eggs prepared?

Didn’t you see my last 35 InstaStories? I’m vegan now. It’s going reallllllly well. Unless I’m drinking or it’s late or I’m hungry. Then it doesn’t count. I also don’t really like eggs that much. Picking a favorite would be like picking a favorite chicken. But gun to my head? Scrambled.