Can three newspaper clippings hanging on a refrigerator constitute a scary stalker shrine?

When it's my refrigerator, and the clippings show a high profile political operative, there isn't any doubt.

Last Friday I looked at the calendar in disbelief.

Just one month until the biggest day.

Last fall I thought I'd fallen into swerve with the idea of turning 30. I think that was amid martinis and delusions of Carrie Bradshaw.

Now I'm just not so sure.

Trepidation.

All about a moment that is sure to just to disintegrate like so much anticlimactic whatever.