In my time, I have killed many plants. Part of this talent I attribute to a lack of education, having never been trained in the dark art of not-killing-plants by my parents and peers; but the meat of it I have always believed to be part of my very being—a skill which I have simply been given by the universe, like whistling or clever insults. My national track history of herbicide, detailed below, will support this argument:

Plants For Whose Deaths I Am Responsible

1978: Rome, NY

When I was four, my mother planted a box of marigolds in the breezeway between the front door and the garage. I’m not sure why she chose marigolds, except that they are easy to grow and that deer find them disgusting. I found them fascinating, but these marigolds were the first plants I ever killed. I peed on them.

1987: Del City, OK

Oklahoma is not a particularly hospitable place to start a flower garden. The soil in our front yard was dense clay and, owing to the local tornado-prone climate, frequently either arid or covered with hailstones. Ignorant of these ramifications, I bought a packet of assorted wildflower seeds and raked up a small rectangle of dirt by the porch in which to plant them. Though I carefully tended the few shoots that grew in my garden, they were overcome by weeds and, as noted above, an almost biblical hailstorm.

1998: Brooklyn, NY

In spite of my vehement protestations, my (now-estranged) roommates decided to cultivate some seeds from the bottom of a baggie of marijuana they had recently consumed. Following instructions on a website, they managed to produce a sizable and aptly-named weed. Among the chores assigned to me (again, against my vocal objections) was the careful regulation of the sodium lamps in the coat closet that held the plant. Predictably, I failed to be diligent in this respect, and the plant expired.

1999: Brooklyn, NY

A potted cactus grew on the porch of my friend’s house. My cat peed in it. The parallels with my young experiences with marigolds are poignant, to say the least.

2005: Brooklyn, NY

Apropos of nothing, and very romantically, I brought home a beautiful tiger lily for my girlfriend. In accordance with conventional wisdom about caring for lilies, I placed an aspirin in its water before going to bed. But just as I was about to fall asleep, it occurred to me that aspirin might be toxic to cats. Sure enough, according to the internet, it was; but do you know what’s even more toxic to cats? Tiger lilies. By the time I discovered the ravished stem of the plant, my cat had consumed all the flowers and most of the leaves. I took the cat to the emergency vet and disposed of the remains of the lily. The cat thrives today.

2012: Brooklyn, NY—An Irrational Decision

Seven years passed before I could build up the confidence to attempt another plant. I had recently joined the founding team of a new startup: a career move that many people believe to be an exercise in failure, and I figured that—for me, at least—a desk plant would serve as a nice allegorical partner-in-crime. If I was going to take on a job that, by definition, nobody really knew how to do, I wanted to really feel comfortable with being bad at something. So I walked to the nearest florist and asked for a plant that would do well in direct sun and be difficult to kill. The woman at the counter presented me with a small jade plant, a succulent with almond-shaped leaves that should (according to the florist) be watered as rarely as possible; I bought it for five dollars.

But how would I prevent the untimely death of this young jade? I set a few preconditions for the care of my new plant:

1. No cats
2. Must live indoors
3. Do not pee on it
4. Quality water and light
5. Must be legal