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The supplement business is a beautiful scam, really. A gleaming, well-lit cathedral of American anxiety where fear, vanity, middle age, and disposable income meet under fluorescent lights and whisper, <\/span>maybe this capsule will save me.<\/span><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n
But, ladies, gents, and enbies, that business made over $50 billion last year. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n
That is more than the GDP of some countries. That is an incomprehensible amount of money flowing toward capsules, powders, gummies, and tinctures that, in a staggering number of cases, do exactly one clinically verified thing and one thing only: <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n
Make your pee more expensive.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n
Marinade on that for a second.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n
You are not buying health. You’re buying expensive (often neon) piss. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n
My friends, you are buying the <\/span>idea<\/span><\/em>\u00a0of health, packaged in a pastel bottle with a leaf on it. And what’s worse, it’s sold to you by a website that also sells jade eggs for your front bum and refers to your gut as your “second brain.” The supplement aisle is what happens when capitalism discovers that people will pay for hope if you put it in a capsule and slap “synergistic blend” on the label. It’s the nutritional equivalent of thoughts and prayers: it feels like doing something, it looks like doing something, and the evidence that it actually does something ranges from “thin” to “you’re literally just funding someone’s Cybertruck.”<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n
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