This weekend was the stuff of which legends are made.
The Observer staff took its annual trip to ICPA (the Indiana Collegiate Press Association) convention, but in reporting back to the friends who didn't go, I've realized the weekend was light on journalism and heavy on scandal.
ICPA is an opportunity for aspiring journalists from the state to attend workshops and panels, and then enjoy a lunch and awards ceremony. But I guess since The Observer is traditionally snubbed at these awards in favor of papers whose "big story" is the theft of its April Fools edition over a year ago, our staff generally sees the weekend as an opportunity for bonding before the new term.
Upon our arrival in Muncie, Ind., we enjoyed dinner together. Then, true to form, we returned to the hotel to begin the night's festivities.
At 9:30 p.m., since we had already received several warning phone calls from the front desk (due to the oversensitivity of the woman staying below), we decided to go swimming. The water was warm and over-chlorinated, and we were ready for a return to our younger days of pool games. Let's just say that my arms still hurt from the chicken fighting.
After being told that chicken fighting was indeed NOT allowed in the hotel pool, it was time to return upstairs, where some of us changed into pajamas, and some of us took 45 minutes to get ready for a simple game of Never Have I Ever.
Never Have I Ever is a game in which things you never wanted to know about your friends are revealed for all the world to know. I can now say I'm definitely closer to my fellow staffers because I know of their secret hook-ups and embarrassing moments.
After the games ended, the debauchery continued, and I was able to find out even more little-known facts about my friends.
I now know that a certain friend of mine can impersonate a pterodactyl flawlessly and doesn't have the slightest problem mooning the rest of us in a hotel room - or in the hotel hallway.
And I also know that, even though someone may look very easy to pick up, I won't be able to do it when she needs to be dragged into our room from the hallway.
Finally, I know that, no matter what you may hear, at no point did two of our female staffers make out - sorry guys.
The next day, The Observer once again was severely underappreciated (probably because we don't continue to beat the dead horse of paper theft.)
But that doesn't matter, because it's Friday night that counts anyway.
