“Dear Remy”: Hollywood Career Coach Offers Insights on a Stalled Job and a Faux Romance That Blossomed.

Dear Remy,
For the past six months, I’ve found myself tangled in a faux romance with a *pop star*. Yes, me—a fledgling actor just crawling out of the humble depths of the industry, only to be handed a shiny “team” to flit around with. You know the drill: PR reps, private chefs, and, heavens, an aesthetician. (I once thought they said *obstetrician* and nearly fainted. Who knew the skin wasn’t on the same timeline as babies?)
Now, let’s talk about PR people, shall we? They’re a peculiar breed—a swirling tempest of hyper-speed chatter that leaves you questioning your grasp of the English language. My savvy team decided that a staged romance with this chart-topping diva would do wonders for us both. So, naturally, there are meticulously crafted paparazzi shots of me lurking backstage at her concerts, the obligatory fake images of us boarding a private jet at Austin-Bergstrom, and of course, those cringe-worthy snaps of us sharing a Stanley cup on Fifth Avenue. (Two straws, one cup. *Wow.*)
The twist? I’ve genuinely fallen for her. Like, really, head-over-heels. I’m lost in daydreams of braiding her hair, scouring Etsy for matching *slankets*, and dreaming up romantic evenings on a two-person paddle boat. I even fantasize about building her a cozy cabin in the woods—complete with a recording studio for her, a dojo for me, and a charming little jetty for fly fishing escapades. But here’s the plot twist: I can’t breathe a word of this to anyone. My PR team has our whole relationship mapped out. We’re slated to “break up” around Thanksgiving (the Instagram announcement has been drafted, color scheme and font included), after which I’m meant to stop shaving until Halloween to convince the world I’ve gone completely “off the rails.”
Remy, I’m utterly lost! What on earth should I do? Here I am, a romantic at heart, ensnared in a PR farce.
Sincerely, A Loved-Up Leading Man
Dear Loved-Up Leading Man,
Welcome to the wild world of PR, where sanity is often just an afterthought. I’ve had my brushes with these PR folks myself—their *strategies*, let’s just say, can be terrifying, especially when they involve your facial hair timeline. But let’s take a moment to peel back the layers of this onion. Navigating this newfound fame is definitely a circus act, but don’t forget your feelings in the whirlwind. You’re caught in a pickle (or, in your case, a lavish private jet and a Stanley cup).
PR has a way of blurring lines between reality and the narrative, but real feelings like yours deserve their own spotlight. First thing’s first: talk to your team. Sometimes these PR wizards see clients as mere *avatars* in their media chess game. Time to remind them that you’re human—a starry-eyed *Pac-Man* who’s actually craving something real. Be honest about the emotional turmoil this faux love affair is causing you. Transparency could spark a strategy that honors both your heart and career.
Now, let’s ponder: does this romance have legs once the curtains close? Does your pop star dream of cozy wood cabins and matching slankets? Is she a fly fishing aficionado? These questions matter if you’re seeking true love rather than just a carefully curated Instagram narrative. Keep me posted! I’m rooting for you to discover love that’s richer than just PR antics and Instagram filters.
Sincerely, Remy
Dear Remy,
Einstein once mused that insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. I’m pretty sure he was talking about murder documentaries.
My life as a documentary filmmaker has whisked me across the globe, flexing my academic muscles (I majored in Anthropology at Yale, with a minor in Primate Evolution). But for the last five years, it’s felt like I’ve been trapped in the same storyline: murder docs. Picture this: each day, I’m capturing drone shots of grassy marshlands where a Jane Doe's shoe lay, interviewing coroners who all seem to be reading from the same haunting script, and drowning in a sad symphony of cellos that now dominates my Spotify playlist. I even have a directory of pathologists from Seattle to Orlando saved in my contacts. How’s that for gripping conversation?
The world’s obsession with murder is frankly, disturbing. It’s as if society