What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?

Ah, yes. Gather 'round, dear reader, and let me tell you the tale of the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done. But I must warn you: I’m not entirely sure it happened exactly like this. Memory is a slippery eel, and I may have—ever so slightly—embellished some parts for dramatic effect. Or maybe all of it. Who's to say?

“The Toast Rebellion of Room 207”

It began on a brisk Wednesday morning—or maybe it was Tuesday. Definitely not a Monday, because I remember being in a suspiciously good mood. The kind of mood that makes you believe you're invincible. Dangerous stuff.

At the time, I was a university freshman, blissfully unaware of laundry cycles and the proper dosage of detergent (a foamy catastrophe for another day). I lived in Dormitory Building B, Room 207, with a roommate named Kyle, who once ate an entire jar of olives in one sitting and didn’t flinch. A legend, really.

Now, on this particular morning, I decided to impress my floor mates by making... toast.

But not just any toast. Oh no.

I had recently read somewhere—possibly a dream, possibly Wikipedia—that toasting bread with peanut butter already spread on it in a dorm microwave created “aromatic bliss.” Some called it dangerous. Others called it revolutionary. I called it breakfast.

I slid the peanut-butter-slathered bread into the ancient microwave that came with our room. It coughed once, as if it knew what was coming. I pressed "2:00" and hit start.

Within 14 seconds, things went south.

The peanut butter began to sizzle. A subtle, sinister smoke curled out from the corners. The microwave sparked. I stared, entranced, wondering if this was part of the “aromatic bliss” process.

Then the fire alarm shrieked like a banshee who’d stubbed her toe.

The entire dorm evacuated. Pajama-clad students huddled outside, shivering and glaring at each other, trying to guess who had ruined their morning. I tried to blend in, but Kyle looked at me. Then at my hands. Then at the microwave—which had been wheeled outside by a furious RA—and then, finally, back at me.

“You tried to toast peanut butter again, didn’t you?”

Again? I don’t recall doing it the first time. But maybe that was Kyle. Or the ghost that allegedly haunted Room 207. (Her name was Agatha. She loved jazz.)

Anyway, I was dubbed "Peanut Butter Pyro" by the end of the week. There were memes. One of them involved my face photoshopped onto a flaming toaster flying through space. I printed it out and hung it on our door.

To this day, I can’t walk past a peanut butter jar without someone fake-coughing smoke into their sleeve. But you know what? I stand by my decision.

Mostly.

Probably.

No, wait—definitely not. Never again.

Unless... what if almond butter—