In the simmering summer of 1989, a band of six youthful rebels, myself included, hatched a plan that would forever mark our adolescence. Our mission was clear: to savor the forbidden fruit, the mystical weed, right before America celebrated its birthday.

We procured our ticket to adventure, a delicately rolled joint, from a local contact as the Independence Day weekend beckoned. Back then, such transactions in our quaint town had an old-school charm, transacted in small, secretive quantities.

We retreated to my fortress of solitude, my room, equipped with a strategically placed fan in the window to shroud our activity in secrecy. With heartbeats echoing the rhythm of rebellion, we lit up the joint. A ritualistic dance ensued - a puff, another puff, a pass, and repeat. Interspersed were bouts of coughing and gasping, our lungs gasping for fresh air yet savouring this new experience.

As the intoxication took over, we soared to stratospheric heights, our minds exploring the shadowy realms of the cosmos. Contrary to popular belief that one's maiden voyage with weed was a docile affair, our reality was a wild psychedelic ride, exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

As the sun dawned on the next day, I received an ominous page from my confidante, his tone heavy with concern. With a tremor in my voice, I confirmed we had partaken in our ritual. His response - a revelation that our joint had been laced with angel dust - plunged us into a surreal realization. Angel dust, unknown and mysterious, had taken us on an unexpected roller coaster ride.

This incident marked a two-year hiatus from the herb, a cautious retreat into sobriety. It wasn't until I was the ripe age of 14 that I dared to dance with Mary Jane again. Looking back, I can't help but laugh at the wild, winding journey that was my introduction to the world of weed.