This is the sixth 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.
A few years ago, I met a guy—let’s call him Trust Fund Ken. He entered my life like divine intervention after a streak of ridiculously hot, emotionally unavailable musicians. (It was an era.) Ken wasn’t my type, but he was exactly what my parents had been manifesting: tall, handsome, Ivy-educated, like he’d stepped off the pages of a Brooks Brothers catalog. He had a great job, planned over-the-top dates, called me Uber Blacks, and, best of all, seemed to fall in love with me instantly.
Within days, we were texting nonstop (red hearts) and FaceTiming “just to see each other’s faces.” He talked about weekends on Nantucket, ski trips to Aspen, Italy in July. He sent reels that nailed my humor, dropped off soup when I had the flu, and made me a jazz playlist with Ella Fitzgerald and Chet Baker. Over dinner, he’d lock eyes with me and say: “I’ve waited my whole life for someone like you” or the classic “I can’t believe you’re real.”
For a guy I’d known for five days, he’d mapped out a life that spanned decades—and I was loving it.
Then, on a random Sunday, it all evaporated. The Good Morning texts? Gone. No FaceTimes, no selfies, no red hearts. I told myself he was busy—high-pressure job, family obligations—but on day ten of silence, I cracked and texted.
Hope you’re doing well!
It took him a full day to answer.
You too, sorry. Work’s been crazy.
Wait, was this the same guy who stared at my ring finger four days before and asked me if I preferred oval to emerald cuts?
How was I supposed to explain this to my mom?
As his silence grew louder, I spiraled—ugly-crying like a rejected Bachelorette, drunk texting, and posting thirst traps he’d never see. My brain was stuck in a loop. So Nantucket’s a no?
It seemed unfathomable that someone could go from planning a future to disappearing overnight. But instead of accepting it, I clung to denial—just like I’d clung to his over-the-top obsession in the first place.
You’d think I’d learn, but a few years later, a young indie film director with great hair swept into my life and made the trust fund guy look like a novice. Future-faking in detail: we’ll go to Puglia, Paris, Paros. I was his muse. He would give me the keys to his (nonexistent) apartment. Is it crazy to talk about kids? I even met his grandma. He had a system: an ambitious climb up the ladder of girls (or down or sideways, depending on your taste level). “When I date someone, I’m always looking for someone better, but there’s no one better than you.” Apparently, there was. Within weeks, he was onto the next girl, definitely a better career fit. What about our baby names: Clementine? Oscar?
This time I got it: I’d been love-bombed.
For the uninitiated, love bombing is when someone buries you in affection, attention, and grandiose plans early on, in fairy-tale fashion. The compliments come fast and free: You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I’ve never felt this way. (They have.) Only to pull back just as quickly and leave you spinning. Promises and phrases hang in the air like vape smoke. Love as performance art.
When it’s happening, it feels like a high. Songs feel personal, even the mundane seems cinematic, and it’s like the universe finally recognizes your beauty and brilliance. You’re the main character, singular and irresistible. Of course they’re obsessed—who wouldn’t be?
But when the façade crumbles—and it always does—it’s not just their feelings you mourn. It’s the pedestal they put you on. You were the star of their movie, and when the credits roll early, you’re left asking: Why me? Something you should have wondered in the first place.
Men love-bomb for a few reasons. Sometimes it’s calculated—a narcissist’s way to create dependency or increase status. (You’re a shiny object that boosts his image.) Other times, it’s insecurity: a desperate bid for adoration to mask a fear of rejection. But mostly, it’s lazy—a quick dopamine hit, like impulse-buying a designer purse and tossing it aside when it’s no longer the it bag. It’s rarely about you. It’s about filling a void they can’t even name.
And honestly, most love bombers probably do feel something in the moment. The intensity, the promises are real to them, just fleeting. They lack the emotional stamina—or willingness—to turn sparks into a flame. The second it gets inconvenient or less exciting, they bolt.
In the age of screens, it’s easier than ever to confuse attention for connection. FaceTimes, memes, texts, Instagram replies… small, virtual gestures we mistake as real. It’s impossible not to get swept up in the illusions they create.
But love bombing isn’t always done to us. Sometimes, we’re the ones lighting the fuse.
Enter Model Boy: a 24-year-old I met at an East Village coffee shop. Absurdly gorgeous— AI-generated perfection—and hopelessly sweet. We spent two nights together before he jetted off to Paris Fashion Week. While he was abroad, our “relationship” thrived on FaceTime. He’d read me poetry, send croissant pics captioned Wish you were here, and vent about the existential burden of being hot and successful. I leaned in hard, telling him he was different, googling flights to Paris, and even buying him a vintage poetry book to flex over FaceTime like a lovesick idiot.
For a second, I believed it all. But the longer he was gone, the less it made sense. I realized I didn’t actually know him. FaceTiming on demand, replying to his texts— it began to feel less like romance and more like work.
My fade-out didn’t go as smoothly as I’d hoped. But after two weeks of FaceTime marathons and endless promises, how could I explain that the rush was gone and his presence now felt suffocating? So, like the coward I am, I ghosted. I’d become the very person I’d sworn off, the villain.
That’s when the crash-out began—his, not mine. The 2 a.m. emails of bad poetry: You were the lighthouse guiding my ship; now I’m lost at sea. The cryptic Smiths lyrics on Instagram, the brooding selfies, the group shots with other models, all clearly bait.
I knew what he was doing because I’d been him—the frantic texts and strategic posts, pics with other girls, all desperate attempts to make someone who doesn’t care notice.
But it was never about him, like love bombing’s never about love. It’s about the rush, the high, the white heat. It’s about a fantasy that is ultimately unsustainable. So, how do we stop? Honestly, we probably can’t.
Here’s the thing: I’ll never stop loving the thrill of someone falling for me at warp speed (and falling for them back). But now, I know better. I’ll enjoy it, maybe play along, but I won’t let it define me—or derail me. No mental planning of a Tuscan wedding. No manic Zillow searches in four different metro areas.
And who knows, maybe one day, the love bombing will turn out to be love. The bomber will turn out to be a lover.
I still hate Trust Fund Ken and Indie Guy for treating me like a mark. (Forgiveness isn’t in my DNA.) As for Model Boy, yeah, I feel twinges of guilt. But let’s be real—I was never going to date someone prettier than me.
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
To Ghost or Not to Ghost
Once Upon a Cosplay