"What?!?" you exclaim.

"Another #$&$# email about his stupid masterclass about something or another I should try out to fix my mixes!" you scream at your email inbox. Your significant other silently wonders if this is the day you finally get committed.

"He's been on edge lately," she later admits to her inner circle of friends. "Sometimes he won't come out of the studio for hours." She covers her eyes with a tissue and starts sobbing.

She remembers you snapping earlier and completely breaks down.

The floodgates open, "Sometimes I think he loves his stupid mixes MORE THAN ME! Every day I have to listen to the same three bars. Over and over and over again, only interrupted by his screaming obscenities of the drums not sounding the way he wants."

"Now, now," she's reassured. "He'll get bored of it soon enough."

"NO HE WON'T!" she protests like a maniacal toddler out of American Horror Story Season 10 "The Children in the Candy Store."

"He'll just keep tweaking. Tweaking tweaking tweaking....tweaking" she repeats to herself, her eyes blinking wildly. Her head twitching on a loop, like a paused movie glitch.

"To save your monsieur mixer from despair, he will need this!" a booming voice says from everywhere all at once because there is no acoustic treatment in the room of this scene.

She looks up at the grandeur of her savior, a Hemsworthian Don Juan on a white stallion. He rises over 10 feet into the sky, completely disregarding the fact that they're inside and the ceiling height is only 8 feet.

He reaches down and hands her the non-tangible PDF and five video files she cannot grab because these are not physical packages and this story isn't true.

"What is this?" She asks, wide-eyed with hope.

"This fraulein, this is the key to getting your beau out of the studio and back into your arms!"

"I will finally get my baby back?"

"Indeed! Not only will you get your love back, but he will finally stop tweaking his mixes and start prospering as a mixing engineer!"

She winces her hand back from the impossible-to-grab digital package.

"Wait...does that mean...?"

The savior leans in closer and with a grin, he says, "Oooh...yes indeed. MORE mixes. BeTtER mIxES!"

The windows flash with lightning and a terrifying thunder darkens the room.

"Oh no..." she mutters to herself as the lights turn back on. A lonely package lays by her feet, becoming material for this one brief moment.

The Faustian package has three simple words on the front:

Parallel Processing Masterclass.

A faint voice accompanied by the chortled neigh of a horse echoes sarcastically from afar,

"You should've listened to your father!"