Farmer Diaries by Onaiza Drabu

I have one rule in life; I don’t lie.

Except, you know, when I’m kidding, or playing an elaborate prank, the likes of which I love, or when I do it involuntarily to avoid answering questions, or for a few exceptional cases.

One such occasion, where I’ve held on to a baseless story, is one which has made me look supremely cool across situations.

I want to be a farmer when I grow up.

Now you can easily argue that I’m already grown up; twenty-three is no age to decide things you don’t want to pursue right away but I will be a farmer when I grow up. Partly because the idea of running a farm and owning estates makes my childhood fantasy of becoming a feudal lord come alive, but largely because I do not want to explain to people how I have not the slightest clue of how to live a normal life and earn money through regular jobs after studying liberal arts for a year. I have been introduced to too many fancy professions and fun job titles to ever sit down on a desk and work on Excel. I am sorry, I’d rather be a spatial curator than an analyst; which, by the way, every third person I meet today seems to be. The creativity in deciding job titles is long since dead. A finance graduate is an analyst; a literature graduate is also an analyst. A lawyer is a legislative analyst, and a doctor is a consulting analyst. Even Tobius Funkey is an analyst and a therapist; beautifully put together to create yet another exciting job title; anal rapist.

So, I’ve decided to become a landlord.