I am the super-villain to the worldwide superhero known as Earth Day.

I never intended on inhabiting an evil lair made of chrome and nuclear waste, but clearly that is where I belong. For too long, I have brought genocide to the plant kingdom. Plants that have lived long and flourishing lives wilt in my presence. Just call me Red Pinky, arch-nemesis to anyone with a green thumb.

My super-villain origin story started innocently, as they often do. I was born to a nature-loving science teacher and raised to identify plants and birds and to have a love of all things coniferous and deciduous. But then, when I was 5 years old, the apple tree that had been planted in honor of my birth died. I felt so linked to the tree that I clearly remember thinking that I would die, too. And perhaps a small part of me did die that day — my nature-nurturing part. From that moment forward, no plant in my possession has survived a season.

Like many super-villains, I spent years trying to be good — fighting my fate as a maple murderer. I would buy plants with better odds of survival. Desert succulents filled my bedroom. My mom, knowing my track record, would buy me cacti. "Surely, even you can keep a cactus alive," she'd say.

And I'd want to keep my cactus. I'd desperately want to. I would show my affection by petting the cactus and hugging the cactus. My mom spent hours with me and a pair of tweezers pulling out prickers from my hands and cheeks. And though I was excellent at affection, I was not so hot with hydrating. And after a while, the cacti would die.

Earth Day always felt like an opportunity to change my fate. Perhaps this year, my thumb would fill with chlorophyll, and at long last, I'd be able to give back to the planet. But year after year, the holiday only served to reaffirm my status as the Jeffrey Dahmer of horticulture, the Charles Manson of agriculture and the Hannibal Lecter of Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia Pets.

On Earth Day, my elementary school would hand out tiny plants to take home and care for. The soil was always dark and moist. The tiny plant was always bright green and fragile. I would name the plant something like Frank, Harvey or Malcolm. I'd spend the hours daydreaming about where I would put my tiny little plant when I got home. But by the time I got off the bus, the only thing that would remain was the white plastic foam cup the plant, ironically, was distributed in. The dusting of brown dirt inside the cup was a cruel reminder of my failure to keep my plant safe.

The years rolled on, and my relationship with the photosynthesizing never improved. My mere presence would cause the woods to wilt. Suicidal sunflowers would bow the moment they were caught in my gaze. If I passed daylilies, they'd close midday just for a chance at survival.

I've been asked on occasion why I don't have a vegetable garden in my backyard. I respond: "Look at the state of my grass. Even grass dies in my care." This usually ends the conversation.

When my now husband and I first moved in together, I decided to give caring for a plant one last shot. We bought a small fern from Wal-Mart and lovingly, creatively named it Wal-Mart — Walmy for short. I believed that the care we gave for this plant would demonstrate the care we would give to a child in the future — an idea that I deemed absolutely absurd and ridiculous when Walmy died a few months later. So much for that idea.

The plant world has rejected me. It doesn't matter what I do. I'm always underwatering or overwatering. Not giving enough sunlight or frying. So I've adapted into my alter ego, Red Pinky.

But truthfully, I don't want to travel the world donning a red plastic mask, spraying plant life with Tabasco sauce and aphids. I want to be one of the good guys. I want flowerbeds and fruit trees and, for goodness' sake, grass. At least grass!

Maybe this Earth Day, I will try again, starting small to avoid mass damage. Perhaps a cactus. But this time, there will be less hugging and more watering.

Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. To find out more about Katiedid Langrock and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.