I Blame Literature

Read enough stories and sooner or later you wish you lived your life on the edge of your seat. You want the punctuation of dramatic decisions. It's not the chicken-salad Mondays that are immortalized. If you want to belong to tale and song, you break the bowl; you jump in the lake; you ruin everything. You restrict your admitted experience to the intermittent sparklers of intensity, you restrict your daydreams to behavior designed to shock other people to their socks and you into vividness.
Today's cliffhanger: can the girl who wishes she'd eloped after a month keep herself from dropping something big just to hear the shatter?