I knock on the door of my neighborhood trap house, and the door cautiously creeps open, one suspicious eye peeking out from behind. When it opens, a tall, dread-headed man fills the entryway, sizing me up while wielding a shotgun. My heart’s beating violently, and I’ve never felt a greater sense of stupidity and regret, but there’s no turning back now.

I’m here to buy a batch of marijuana muffins for my high school classmates who want to get baked on baked goods. I’d assumed the hardest step of this process would be getting my hands on the drugs, but that part was far simpler than the fallout of actually eating them.

My high school’s edible experience snowballed into hysteria when my super-potent weed muffins sickened dozens of students, who proceeded to vomit all over their desks, faculty car windshields, and computer lab equipment. The ensuing health crisis left pale-faced seniors passed out on the floor, piles of throw-up lining the hallways, and teachers helplessly panicked. To this day, the afternoon this catastrophic failure unfolded is known among our community as “Muffin Monday.”

Edibles are a risky endeavor. Screw up the bud/butter concoction and your snacks are useless. Add too much or too little green and you end up with poor potency. Eat the wrong portion size and get way too high or not high enough. Anyone who’s attempted to craft up cannabis cuisine can appreciate the countless ways you can go wrong.

I wanted to bypass this guessing game and give my friends an edible we could count on — and that’s how I found myself feeling trapped inside a trap house, surrounded by sketchy convicts holding semi-automatic weapons. I bought two dozen muffins for seven dollars each, which seemed like a reasonable price given my dealers’ ordinarily costly drugs.

Years later, when I bumped into that same bud dealer (now working in a grocery store bakery), he confessed that my batch of muffins was made using an entire pound of marijuana. Once he discovered that the sweet treats were “fucking people up,” he wanted to get rid of them, so he attempted to sell them super cheap. I was the sucker who took him up on his offer.

Before the first bell, I handed out every damned muffin to the friends and acquaintances who’d requested one.  They were supposed to taste like “chocolate chip,” but even the tiniest crumb tasted like straight weed. We paid no mind to the repulsive flavor, and each scarfed down an entire muffin before stepping into our classrooms. All was well throughout first hour. But by second period I’d become baked out of my mind, and I frightenedly noticed my friend Kelly, who was sweating profusely and looking paler than a ghost.

Kelly maintained composure for 15 minutes, staring down with bloodshot eyes at her clammy hands. When her violent nausea became too much to suppress, she desperately flung herself out of her seat, sprint out of the portable, and into the parking lot. She collapsed onto a nearby sedan, and her herbal muffin came back up just as quickly as it had gone down. She puked on the windshield of our physics teacher’s car, then texted me, “just threw up.” This was the first of many such messages I’d receive throughout the day.

Before lunch, my phone was buzzing wildly with updates that “Isaac just barfed in econ” and “Gabe vomited in the chem lab sink.” Piles of puke filled the hallways. A junior girl threw up all over the computer lab equipment. A senior boy attempted to escape his classroom to retch, but he blacked out, slammed his face on the desk, and wound up with a brutally bloody nose. The teachers became hopelessly confused as to what caused this mass contagion, and they began scrambling for answers.

Meanwhile, I’m stupid stoned, insanely anxious, and scared shitless that someone will rat me out. I’m sweating bullets and my eyes are redder than the devil’s dick, but I have to appear as if I’m feeling fine, and act oblivious to the depravity unraveling all around me. If I’m caught, I’d suffer suspension at the least. More likely, I’d endure expulsion or even charges of felony drug distribution. I started feeling queasy myself, and tried pacifying my sickening paranoia by quietly repeating the phrase, “deny, deny, deny.”

But my grim punishment never came. Miraculously, I made it to the final bell without facing an accusation, an interrogation, or an arrest. I went home, retreated into my bedroom, and tried to sleep away the awful day I’d endured. As I slept, the school custodians mopped away the mess I’d created, likely complaining that they don’t get paid enough to clean up this much puke. I woke up and was still stoned, but my anxiety had abated. Muffin Monday had given way to another ordinary Tuesday.

Had this happened today, as opposed to several years ago, I’m sure my face would be plastered across national newspapers and digital media websites. The fury of the internet and the controversy of children eating pot edibles would spark headlines like, “FLORIDA BOY INDUCES MASS SICKNESS WITH TOXIC PASTRIES.” But thankfully, my high school health crisis quietly faded away, and years later I can safely and anonymously share my story.

I’m not the only one to endure such a cannabis-induced nightmare. We all have an edible experience gone wrong. Yours might have put you to bed. Mine could have put me in prison.