hypocrisy part deux

Today is a 100 on the Wisconsin Frisbee Index.

This means I woke up, looked outside, and thousands of little bells in my head went off, triggering an irresistible urge to frolic outside. The WFI runs on a scale of 0-100 (0 being bone-shattering wind conditions and slushy ice rain), influenced by such factors as sunshine, sky hue, and relative previous weather conditions affecting ability to frolic outside (read: spring fever). Thus, a mildly brisk, partly cloudy day can trigger a high WFI simply because it occurs after months of slogging through snow and slush wearing every piece of clothing you own. It could be 50 F. You can calculate the WFI most effectively by counting the number of students who are tossing a frisbee, lounging on the half-dead grass of Bascom Hill, or just generally skipping class while enjoying an iced beverage at an outdoor cafe. Someone will open their dorm window and blast Dave Matthews out of it. This indicates an especially high WFI; only nudged farther up if the music in question is Bob Marley.

Thus, although I have spent the majority of "winter" in mild, usually sunny climes, my personal WFI has reached an all time high. It is a combination of spending a recent amount of time in the Midwest, watching the transition from winter to spring begin, being holed up with my parents and no job/friends for several months, wanting to get more physical exercise in the form of frolicking, and a very specific knack for knowing just exactly what the difference is between one San Diego day and the next. Most people are baffled by this, but when you live here, you know. Perhaps it's a general brightness to the colors and sounds. A warmer breeze. Whatever it is, it's subtle but its message is clear:

IT'S SPRING!!

Side effects of my high WFI include:
-horniness
-parading about in skimpy bathing suit
-dusting off Sublime CDs (I just can't listen to them in good conscience in winter)
-girly clothing
-painting toenails

Yes, I am preparing myself for the mating ritual that spring is. I can't deny it, it's an age-old, instinctual tradition. Time to get my groove on. Tap that ass. Shake what my momma gave me.

Sweeeeet.