This is the fourth installment of Dating, Unhinged, an exclusive series for Playboy from writer, model, and viral content creator Isabel Timerman — better known to her loyal followers as IsabelUnhinged. She started posting videos in 2022, using social media as an outlet after a messy breakup. With her candid, painfully relatable posts, she quickly amassed a devoted following and millions of views. Now crowned the “Empress of Delululand,” she leads the delulu movement, encouraging women to embrace their fantasies with humor and positivity. Her satirical yet honest approach to dating has made her a powerful voice for those seeking empowerment through unfiltered authenticity.
I met “The Brit” at a private party I’d attended with my boyfriend. Now, I know what you’re thinking, but by that point, I’d gathered enough evidence that he was cheating: suspicious Instagram follows, going ghost on Saturday nights, leaving me out of plans for his so-called “boys’ nights.” Our relationship was as dead as my neglected houseplants, and on that specific night, I was little more than a piece of social decor. So, after an hour of being ignored and venting to the bartender—thank God for the open bar—I wandered off to the bathroom. In line stood a tall guy with wavy blonde hair and eyes so blue they looked lit from within.
“Hi,” he said, a smile curling across his face.
“Hey,” I grinned, feeling a rush that had been conspicuously absent for a while.
“You’re really beautiful,” he said in his irresistible British accent, and I couldn’t help but think: It’s about time somebody noticed. (My then-boyfriend didn’t believe in giving compliments because it was “obvious.”) We bantered as the bathroom line crawled, a distraction from my very grim reality.
“Is that it then?” he teased as I turned to go. “No phone number?”
“Give me your number,” I said, passing him my phone. “For a friend.”
By 6 p.m. Tuesday, the boyfriend and I were done. By 7 p.m., I was crafting a text to The Brit:
Girl from the bathroom line. Wanna grab a martini?
Our first date was suitably cinematic—a dimly lit French wine bar in the East Village. We covered the basics: his finance job (thankfully, not another musician), his passions (golf?). When he asked me what kind of influencer I was, I kept it vague, hoping I wouldn’t pop up on his FYP when he got home and be forced to explain it’s all a bit—that I’m not actually unhinged. (Or am I?)
The next morning, he texted: Hey I had a lovely time last night. Want to do it again?
We met Thursday for a gallery tour in Chelsea, only to find that all the galleries were closed, so we wandered the West Side like lost tourists, eventually landing at a forgettable Mexican spot, downing spicy margs before they kicked us out. He mentioned doing something over the weekend—his friends were hitting Public Records on Saturday, and I should join.
On the way back uptown, I got a text:
Feel like our date was cut short by the bar closing. See you this weekend?
I was already envisioning the wedding toast—“We met in a bathroom line” I even stalked his LinkedIn, his mom’s Facebook, and his childhood home on Zillow. But my delusions hit a brick wall when I was met with silence. For weeks.
“He probably found your TikTok,” my friends joked. It’s become a running gag: whenever a guy ghosts, I assume he found my TikTok. It’s easier than blaming myself. IsabelUnhinged is the problem, not me. I live for the bit, and the Brit—I mean the bit—always comes first. So, I shrugged it off, moved on, and went back to dating. The Brit was history. Oh well.
Then, weeks later, his area code flashed on my phone.
Hey, hope you’ve been well. I’ve been doing some thinking, and while I enjoyed our dates, I don’t think we have much in common. Just wanted to be honest instead of wasting both our time.
I wasn’t going to respond, but who am I to pass up a hostile exchange with a stranger?
All good, unsaved number.
It was the first time I’d been on the receiving end of “radical honesty.” In the past, I’d been love-bombed, breadcrumbed, ghosted into oblivion. But I’d never experienced the door slam of a flat-out “It’s over.” Decision made. No room for rebuttal. Especially after dates that, by all accounts, went well. Maybe he did the right thing, maybe he was honest—but come on. We hadn’t even had dinner, a proper sleepover, or more than a handhold on the way to a bar. We’d spent a total of three hours together…did he really have to…express his feelings?
A few weeks later, after a Hinge date with a guy I had zero chemistry with, I decided to let silence do the talking. Full commitment to the ghost. Yet two weeks later, there he was, popping up in my texts anyway:
Didn’t hear from you and didn’t want to just ghost. Maybe the timing’s off. Take care x.
A respectable reverse in narrative. Honestly, 10/10.
My friend Valentina is a proponent of radical honesty. One rainy day, she called out to a guy from our Uber. He was a walking god, and she was in a mood. The unsuspecting stranger ran over, as people tend to do with Val, who exerts a magnetic force on all men who cross her path. They exchanged numbers, and he was dubbed “The Shrink,” a Turkish therapist with a heavy accent. They had dinner that night at Mogador, and even though he was 6’5″ and gorgeous, he was way too handsy, asked if he could “feed her,” then shoveled the remainder of their meals into takeout containers.
The next morning, when he texted her a photo of the previous night’s soggy meatballs, she knew what she needed to do:
Hi! I wanted to be honest and let you know I don’t think I’m there romantically or from a chemistry standpoint. But I had a great time and would love to stay friends.
I admired Val’s directness, but then again…how about a well-crafted, ego-preserving lie? “My ex just unexpectedly returned from his mission in Kiev.” Or simply…nothing?
My friend Claire had a one-night stand with a sexy Parisian architect during a break from her long-term relationship. They texted back and forth for a bit, and then it fizzled, so she shrugged it off—it was what it was. A month of no contact later, after she’d already reunited with her ex, he resurfaced.
Hey, sorry for the radio silence and for being a lousy texter. In the midst of our sporadic messaging, I’ve sort of started seeing someone. I really enjoyed getting to know you, but I’m going to give this a shot. Hope you understand.
Look, I’m all for radical honesty—when it’s actually necessary. Like when you’ve texted consistently for a month, gone on several dates, had sleepovers and deep chats where you unsolicitedly dropped the lore about your dad as they played with your hair, telling you that everything is going to be okay. That they’re here for you.
In those cases, the moral thing to do is rip off the Band-Aid and just say, “We didn’t vibe.” Or “I’m not there romantically.” But let’s be real—some things are better left unsaid. There’s quiet dignity in not knowing, in never knowing, and in never wanting to know. Sometimes, silence really is golden.
Catch up on Dating, Unhinged:
The Noah Effect: Are Nice Guys Finally Trending?
How (Not) To Get Your Ex Back
The Crazy-Hot Matrix, Explained