This was supposed to be the tale of how I won Tulip, the girl of my dreams. But who am I kidding? She had a boyfriend, and I had the kind of looks that made mirrors weep. So, instead of mooning over a girl I had no chance with, I spent my days goofing off with Rash and Dan, my partners in crime and in questionable life choices.

After school, we had these evening coaching classes—just one period, nothing too intense. But before the class started, we had some free time to waste, and waste it we did. Rash and I would engage in what we called “Bottle Wars,” a highly sophisticated game where we’d toss a water bottle back and forth, trying to outdo each other in dropping it. Pure athleticism, right? And when we got bored of that, we’d turn the bottle into a makeshift football, battling to see who could score the most by slamming it into some imaginary goalpost. We were basically Messi and Ronaldo, if Messi and Ronaldo were clumsy idiots with too much free time.

Fighting was another favorite pastime. Rash fancied himself a WWE pro, and I was his unfortunate practice dummy. He had all the moves down—headlocks, arm twists, you name it. The guy was a walking, talking wrestling manual, and I was his hapless victim. Our coach would’ve been proud, except we weren’t exactly following any sort of curriculum.

During exam season, our evening class would be held after the exams, which meant more time to mess around. One day, Rash and I finished our exams early, so we decided to explore the school’s chemistry lab—because what could possibly go wrong with two unsupervised idiots in a room full of dangerous chemicals?

We wandered in and spotted a bottle labeled “HCL. DO NOT TOUCH.” Naturally, that was an open invitation. “Let’s see how dangerous this stuff really is,” I said, and, like an idiot, I poured some into my hand. “See? Nothing’s happening! It’s fake acid!” I declared triumphantly. “Dude, your hand is smoking,” Rash pointed out, eyes wide. Sure enough, my hand was sizzling like bacon on a Sunday morning. I scrambled to wash it off, my newfound fear of chemistry seared into my brain.

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But hey, one near-death experience wasn’t enough. My next bright idea was to make a bomb out of matchsticks. I had just watched a YouTube video where some genius demonstrated how to turn everyday household items into explosives, and I thought, “Why not?” I collected matchstick heads like a pyromaniac Easter egg hunt and wrapped the powder in a paper tube. It was my masterpiece—a cardboard landmine ready to change the world (or at least blow up a small part of it).

I placed my creation by the window and lit the fuse, expecting a dramatic explosion. What I got was a pathetic fizzle. Disappointed, I was about to light it again when my mom called me. Panicking, I hid the still-sparking bomb in a stack of clothes—because nothing says “safety” like flammable materials near an open flame. Naturally, my grandpa found it later and gave me a lecture that could’ve burned down the house faster than my failed bomb ever would.

But I wasn’t done playing with fire. Inspired by Thor’s hammer in Infinity War, I decided to forge my own out of molten wax and plastic. I scavenged a crayon box for a mold—because why use anything practical? The box was already half-dead from an unfortunate encounter with a ceiling fan, so I figured it could at least die a hero.

Melting the wax was easy enough, but the plastic was a nightmare. It took forever to get a cupful of the stuff, but I was determined. I poured the molten mess into the crayon box, imagining myself as some kind of mythical blacksmith, only to have my mom walk in at the worst possible moment. She freaked out, of course, and trashed my makeshift furnace before I could do any real damage. But I wasn’t about to give up. I tried again in secret and finally crafted my very own Thor’s hammer—though it was less “Mjolnir” and more “melty plastic blob.”