Sunny and in the High 70s

Really, wunderground.com? Really? Because from where I'm sitting, it's been raining all day. I'm running out of dry clothing because every time I go outside I get soaked to the skin. And admittedly, I'm used to being drenched by cold water, but my entire room is festooned with damp clothing and I'm going to have to dig the ripped pants out of my laundry bag and wear them to class tomorrow because NOTHING IS DRYING. Granted, I wouldn't be up this creek if I hadn't been practicing the ice-up in front of the mirror last night, but then again, I wouldn't been up this creek if Windigo had actually stopped the Living Whirlwind in Texas instead of strengthening it by spinning the WRONG WAY, so I don't see why I should blame MY superpowers instead of hers. The weathermen at wunderground are running around like decapitated chickens, trying to rework their little colorful maps to account for our brand-new cold front. They look fairly sheepish about it too. Their accuracy's been crap ever since Foresight graduated to the big leagues. I understand that precogs are almost prohibitively expensive to keep around full-time these days, especially once they go over a certain power threshold, but seriously, it's nearly hurricane season. There has to be at least one precog working at the weather stations. They can't ALL have gotten shut down by The Paradox last year.
How accurate are those weather predictions anyway? Has anyone ever done the math and measured actual meteorological conditions versus predicted ones? That could be a great math project for one of those human calculator types. Granted, the superhuman community does have a significant atmospheric effect, but you'd think they'd factor that in. They have to have a list of the big wind-and-weather types somewhere, don't they?
In local news, Dani has taken to shuffling around with a box of tissues and a tragic expression until she guilts me into doing stuff for her. I've done a dining hall run (in the rain, of course) to fetch her some delicious, nutritious box of institutional slop. The soup was ice-cold by the time I got it to her, naturally. Even through the Styrofoam cup.