This is the first in 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. Here, she explains the mysterious “crazy-hot matrix”.
If you’re a woman reading this, chances are you’ve been called “crazy” at least once in your life. Not because you’ve genuinely lost your mind, but because some guy you liked—or worse, loved—needed a quick diversion. It’s a classic move: the ultimate guilt eraser, used to shut down anyone bold enough to call out bad behavior. Crazy. The girl who jumps out of a moving car during an argument or questions why her boyfriend’s feed is filled with bikini models, then goes on his phone while he’s in the shower. And when, not if, she finds something—because let’s be real, we always do—what’s the word she’ll be called ninety-nine percent of the time? Crazy.
“See?” they say when you finally crack. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.” So, if your ex’s face just invasively flashed through your mind (the light-eyed Sagittarius or the lanky, undercover thot?), congrats! Your fate is sealed. You’re officially crazy.
The Mysteries of the Crazy-Hot Matrix
Tribeca, Late August
“Alright, listen up. This is the Universal Crazy-Hot Matrix,” Andrew explained, tilting his phone to show us a graph. “It’s an X-Y axis: crazy on one side, hot on the other. Scale of one to ten.”
The point of this classification system, devised with typical male subtlety, is to map a woman’s hotness against her crazy in order to navigate the dating scene. Andrew is my best friend Jordan’s boyfriend, and I was third-wheeling their Tuesday 10PM dinner at an Omakase bar in Tribeca. I had suggested inviting Jonah—Andrew’s 6’3 model friend with marine blue eyes who is predictably gorgeous and unpredictably nice. We’d gone out a few times early in the summer, somehow managing to stay friends.
The last months had been chaotic, even by my standards. I had dated a few people during my post-break-up summer of sin: a blur of Italy, New York, and the Hamptons. There was the Dime Square rocker, a Goldman Sachs banker, a Nepo baby/art patron. There was the fleeting fixation with a Davidesque waiter at a cafe in Ischia—the way I instantly fell in love with him when he made my cappuccino with a foam heart, subsequently scrawling my number on a napkin. (He never called). By the end of the summer, I was relieved to be back with my friends, with Jonah. Or, simply just staring at him.
Andrew is also my go-to source for decoding male nonsense—harsh, but refreshingly honest. He was instrumental in my last breakup. When I told him my boyfriend had been following a suspicious number of random girls, Andrew didn’t flinch. “Either he’s DMing them or hooking up,” he said flatly, as if reading off the weather report. It turned out he’d been right, and I responded with the level-headed hysteria that the situation called for: rambling emails, a breakup via text, blocking him on every app (Venmo included), and, naturally, a 2 a.m. phone call a month later “just to chat.”
“I have nothing to chat about,” my ex texted back. “You’re crazy.”
“See this?” Andrew said, a sudden gravity settling over his features. “That’s the NO-GO ZONE. If she’s a 5 hot and a 7 crazy, steer clear.”
How had I missed the memo that men had a universal cheat sheet for picking girlfriends? I subtly shifted as I became aware of a potential wardrobe malfunction—low-cut blazer, nothing underneath. Not that anyone noticed. All eyes were glued to the Matrix, especially Jordan and I—veterans of being called “crazy” one too many times.
“The Danger Zone is here,” Andrew continued, tapping the chart with a knowing grin. “Redheads, strippers, girls named Tiffany. Women who are a wild ride but will throw a boot at your head or pull a knife on you by the end of the night.”
He was partially quoting Dana McLendon, the creator of the matrix. A Tennessee lawyer, McLendon came up with the idea when he had been half-jokingly talking about it with a client. In his 60s-style business attire and specs, McLendon sketched out the grid on a white board and it soon became a viral YouTube sensation, now elevated to the realm of dating science by many guys: a risk/reward model, helping men chart the optimal level of looks vs crazy. I couldn’t help but think about how the matrix overlooks a fundamental truth: Some men are drawn to danger.
“What if a girl’s a 10 crazy and a 10 hot?” I interjected. “Just asking for a friend.”
“We’ll get there,” Andrew said. “You’re skipping steps.”
He then cleared his throat, cranking up his phone’s brightness like he was about to deliver a TED Talk. We were all laughing, but I was genuinely curious—where did I land on this misogynistic scale? The Danger Zone, I feared. After all, I did make a career out of being unhinged on the internet. My handle is quite literally *IsabelUnhinged* and let’s just say graceful exits aren’t my thing. I’ve never, not once, ended a relationship on good terms. (Okay, maybe once, but it’s still not technically over.)
“And here’s the Fun Zone,” Andrew said, jabbing at the chart while biting into his sashimi. “Girls who are a solid 5-8 on the hot scale but keep the crazy under a 7. Take her out, show her off—but remember, the crazy can always shift.”
“The kind of girl you can bring around your friends,” Jonah chimed in, flashing that all-too-familiar smile.
“Exactly,” Andrew nodded. “Looks good on your arm, no questions asked.”
Then he moved to the Date Zone—over an 8 in hotness, under a 7 in crazy. “Reliable, most of the time.” I pictured myself in the Wife Zone—high on the hot scale, low on the crazy—though opinions may vary. “Perfect for long-term, minimal drama,” Andrew added.
And finally, the Unicorn: a 10 in looks with zero crazy. “But those don’t exist,” Andrew said with authority. “Because every girl’s got a little crazy, even if you don’t see it right away.”
The Problem(s) With the Matrix
As Andrew meticulously broke down the chart, I couldn’t shake the thought that women could never devise an equivalent system for classifying men. We don’t stigmatize. We rationalize. And anyway, where would the unemployed “artists” with Goodwill wardrobes go? The best thing about women is our collective talent for convincing each other that all men are attractive in their own quirky ways and their pathological personality traits only add to the fun. Rodent face? Big nose? Short King? Doesn’t matter—he’s an “ugly hot guy.” Take a drug addicted, verbally abusive loser and girls will say he’s so Lana Del Rey Vinyl. These men and their flaws become trends, and we as women eat up every second of it (and ponder their childhood traumas in the meantime). For women, attraction isn’t some formula—it’s subjective, unpredictable, and often makes no sense at all. Men, however, are often less tolerant of quirks.
I thought about my ex again. The latest one—the only guy I managed to suppress my crazy for, in a valiant effort to stay “chill” and “unbothered,” only for it to crumble in one final, knives-out texting marathon before we never spoke again. So even when you start out sane, they always manage to make you crazy. Could’ve skipped ahead.
Over time, I’ve learned to shed the shame of being *that* girl. At this point, I’ve done it all. Burner numbers, emails after being blocked, reaching out to their friends and siblings, hacking on to their Instagram and Facebook accounts, gathering CIA-level intel on the new girl. (Need a tutorial?) I’ve stormed out of dinners, food hot on the table, and listed Supreme hoodies on Depop.
Remember divas, they will always call you crazy. So lean in. Own and redefine. My college boyfriend has repeatedly said “the hotter the girl, the crazier” and everyone knows who he’s referring to. And I’ve also heard from a friend—New York is a small place—that my preppy ex from two years back has recently been spotted reading my unhinged texts out loud. And no, they weren’t drunk texts, because not to brag, but I don’t need alcohol to send a text I’ll regret.
“He was acting kind of proud,” she said. At least I gave him character development.
From the editors:
Now that you understand the crazy-hot matrix, need more dating advice? Adult legend Riley Reid has some simple but effective tips.