5 Ways To Tell Whether The Guy You're Dating Is Dangerously Insane

This was originally a scientific paper that I meant to submit to this week's guest publication, Psychology Weekly. However, the publishers I signed up with a few months ago technically own every piece of work I produce and there hasn't been much of that lately. They've already taken my house, tv and first-born son, so after a few bad decisions and a slight change in editorial direction, the article has been published as follows, for the popular women-parts-oriented magazine, Cosmopolitan. I'll be using Psychologist Will's Nose-Fucking-Psycho Scale (patent pending), the number 1 indicating Run For Your Lives and 5+ Make Peace With Your God. Try to keep up.

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He's a Conspiracy Theorist.
PWNFP Scale: 1

Identifiable by their: tin-foil hats, opinions unburdened by fact. 

It takes a fair few balls to read one sensationalist article about a horrendous national tragedy and scream 'ISN'T IT OBVIOUS? THE GOVERNMENT DID IT!' So I actually have a little respect for these people. All you ladies out there though, should be wary. Though they're certain to have some, let say entertaining, opinions, they're just as likely to be living in their mother's basement on a diet of Gatorade and crazy. I'll make this easy, if you're seeing a man romantically, you're not dating a conspiracy theorist. Unless you're one too. Which makes you something of a valued commodity on the interne- alright fine. More valued. But it also begs the question, how did you come to be reading this? Did your miraculous fingers, honed by years of keyboard molesting on forums, actually, make, a mistake? Or are you just here looking for love?


He enjoys Hostel it a bit too much.
PWNFP Scale: 4

Identifiable by their: moody eyes, stock of human fingers.

Torture porn films like Saw and Hostel enjoyed a surge of popularity in the noughties, but like the erections of so many in their core fanbase, the excitement didn't last long. Just having seen these films doesn't make you a monster, thousands of people didn't walk out of cinemas all over the world to suddenly realise they're a serial killer. They were intended to purely shock, but let's not get into a discussion about what constitutes true artistic merit here, this is a magazine for women. I know my audience. No, what you need to know is this: don't panic if you see a stack of horror films in his DVD collection when you're taking your first tentative steps into his apartment (giggle). Panic when you wake up to find him drawing 'cut-here' marks on your skin in permanent marker. Unless he's a plastic surgeon. In fact, ignore it just on the off-chance that he is a plastic surgeon. They make a lot of money you know.


His blood is a pale, corrosive acid.
PWNFP Scale: Eleventy-Hundred and Fine

Identifiable by their: hivemind, disregard for simple mating patterns

Quick! Find a sharp implement like a kebab skewer or an ornate letter opener. Dammit this is no time to be choosy! Right, now drive it into your man's subclavian artery. Now, this is critical. What, exactly mind, are you covered in? Hot, red fluid with a metallic tang? That's good. Those of you in this position can just skip straight to the make-up sex now. Those of you who've been screaming for the past 30 seconds while your flesh melted, are in a less fortunate position. It's a common misnomer that men with lurid, caustic liquid in their veins in the place of blood, are gay. Not true, the blood of homosexuals is actually highly sought-after for its miraculously curative powers. But if your man has highly acidic blood then chances are he's already impregnated your face, so... congratulations! Enjoy your 12 hours of maternity leave before his love child emerges screaming from your abdomen.


His flesh is a dozen ravens.
PWNFP Scale: Gargle.

Identifiable by their: dislike of cats



Let me take this oppurtunity to say that if you've been prudent so far, and made all these checks on your new beau, at this point, why wouldn't you make sure he's not a dozen arcane ravens hiding in the skin of a man? Because that would be crazy. That's why. He probably isn't, but just in case he is, just be sure to have the Rite of Bel-Shamharoth memorised, and pay particular attention to the two-step plie when you're libating the blood of the pig-nosed vipers. The whole thing really hinges on it.


He is Pandemonium, The World Ender.
PWNFP Scale: AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!

You're all fucked.

I'm afraid I haven't been totally honest with you, ladies. Because while you were earnestly checking up on your new fling, I opened up a portal to the kind of universe that makes Cthulu roll up his windows when he drives through. It's nothing personal, I just had to distract you all while I was daubing the ancient runes in orphan blood on the floor, but don't worry, you're going to love living under the hegemony of Kal Dez-Hur. Trust me, it's pretty swell. You'll all get access to Channel 666, which has all the repeats of Keeping Up With The Kal Dez-Ashians and plays them pretty much all day, and there's at least three violent deaths an episode on that show. It's a great lark, I'm telling you. What's wrong? You look upset. Yes, I can see you. He is here now. I am his eyes, because I have been chosen. Chosen to facilitate his glorious ascent to our plane. And to mark his consorts. Quickly it understands. But it's too late. Your fear is on my tongue and your screams only make it taste the sweeter. It should have chosen better last words.