You know your not going to have a good day when you wake up to find out you’re a serial murderer. That’s right; as soon as I woke up and walked around my place I saw it: the lifeless bodies of my daisies sprawled out on my window sill. I am a plant killer. There. I've said it. It's out in the open now. It's no longer a dirty, nasty, little secret eating away at my very soul. It's embarrassing, maybe even shameful, but it's true. I kill plants. Give me a plant, I’ll kill it. It may take days, it may take weeks … some have lasted for a month. However, I will kill them. Not on purpose though, I’m not sadistic! I don’t want to kill them … I want to be the nurturing, earth-mother type with vibrant and lush houseplants all over but either  I over-water them, or underwater them. Don’t talk to them enough, or swear at them too much.

It’s a terminal sentence for a plant to come into my house; everyone who knows me knows that I'm a serial plant killer. It's almost certain that if a plant gets into my home it'll be dead soon. I honestly think that taking care of plants is a mystic calling that unfortunately, was not bestowed upon me by the garden gods that be. I accept that. I envy the stalwart devotee who can, with just the touch of his or her hand, make plants happy, bountiful and thriving, too bad it’s not me – even worse for all my past plants and the future ones that I will no doubt assassinate.