1-888-Ozempic. Weight Loss Now! Melt Fat Fast! Need to Lose 30 Pounds?
I passed four billboards driving on the 15 with these words. It wasn’t just the frequency of the sales pitches that caught my attention, it was the fact that it epitomized a vicious cycle. The ad wasn’t just selling weight loss—it was marketing surface-level solutions in a syringe. It promised to fix a problem largely created by the very economic forces that made semaglutide a billion-dollar industry to begin with.
Welcome to the bulimia of capitalism, where we are force-fed consumption and have to pay to purge it. This is limbic capitalism at its most insidious—an economic system designed to hijack our brain’s reward centers for profit, encouraging “excessive consumption and addiction” [1]. Worse still, it has turned even health products, the supposed antidotes to our woes, into merchandised obsessions. Ozempic, Wegovy, and other semaglutide-based drugs aren’t just solutions; they’re also consequences of the commodification of health.
Let me preface- there are people who genuinely need these drugs. For individuals with Type 2 diabetes or other metabolic conditions, semaglutide is a life-changing medical intervention [2]. It’s not just about weight loss—it’s about controlling blood sugar levels, reducing the risk of cardiovascular disease, and improving overall quality of life. For these patients, access to semaglutide can mean the difference between thriving and merely surviving.
The current demand for these drugs has created a scarcity that leaves those who need them most struggling to access them. As semaglutide becomes a cultural phenomenon, driven by influencers and off-label prescriptions for cosmetic weight loss, the supply chain buckles under the pressure. Prices skyrocket, and insurance coverage often lags behind the hype. It can cost around $1300, and starting January 1, 2025, coverage for these drugs will end for fully insured large group commercial members [3]. The result? The people who genuinely need this medication are left at the back of the line, while those seeking a quick “fix” dominate the market. It’s a stark reminder of how our current economic system prioritizes profit over equitable healthcare access.
Obesity doesn’t exist in a vacuum—it’s deeply intertwined with socioeconomic factors that disproportionately impact lower-class populations. Food deserts, where fresh, affordable produce is scarce, leave communities reliant on cheap, ultra-processed, calorie-dense options [4]. Stress from economic instability, lack of time for exercise due to demanding work schedules, and limited access to healthcare all compound the issue. The result? A perfect storm where the very people most affected by these systemic inequalities are also the ones least equipped to escape them.
This is where limbic capitalism’s deeper mechanisms come into play. The issue isn’t just that corporations sell us problems and solutions in the same breath—it’s that capitalism as a system thrives on cycles of scarcity and excess, creating artificial demand while restricting access to true well-being. The pharmaceutical industry isn’t incentivized to truly solve the health crisis because there’s no profit in prevention. Public health interventions, better wages, urban planning that promotes walkability—none of these generate billion-dollar returns. What does? A drug that can be endlessly prescribed, marketed with urgency, and kept expensive enough to ensure that desperate consumers will pay whatever it takes.
Capitalism doesn’t just tolerate inefficiency in healthcare; it requires it. The longer a problem persists without being truly solved, the more money there is to be made. The food industry profits from ultra-processed, addictive products; the weight loss industry profits from the consequences of those products. Insurance companies benefit from restrictive coverage policies that push people into out-of-pocket expenses for semaglutide. Meanwhile, advertising fuels the cycle by framing the problem as a matter of personal failure rather than systemic design. Ozempic isn’t just a weight-loss drug—it’s a case study in how capitalism manufactures demand, exploits it, and ensures that only those with means can truly participate in its supposed benefits.
The irony of “health products” becoming addictive commodities doesn’t end with food and weight loss drugs. Look around, and you’ll see it everywhere. Sleep apps to counteract the stress caused by our always-on digital lives. Vapes are marketed as cigarette alternatives, only to create new nicotine addicts. Even gym culture, which should be focused on strength training and health improvement, has been filled with body dysmorphia, disordered eating, and unnatural supplements. We’re sold solutions to problems created by the very systems we’re trying to escape.
So the next time you hear an ad for semaglutide, ask yourself: who’s really benefiting here? It might not be the person making that late-night call to “1-888-Melt-Fat-Fast.” More likely, it’s the companies on both ends of the line—the ones feeding us junk and the ones promising salvation in a syringe. The rest of us? We’re just casualties of capitalism's endless cycle of indulgence and exploitation.
