You split a wicked grin as you pick up a hammer and go to town. Everything breaks under your unlimited rage and glee; the bookshelf falls apart and the books go flying, the table cracks and splits in two, the pots all shatter, the pumpkin explodes and sheds pumpkin goo everywhere. Nothing is safe from you. Nothing, except the anvil in the corner. No matter how hard you strike it, your hammer does nothing to it but ring out and send painful vibrations up your arm. It’s frustrating, infuriating that something could survive and withstand your rampage. The anvil sits there, unbroken and mocking, until it’s all you can think about.