Medical books don’t have to look glamorous, but they should at least look professional. Semaglutides instead looks like it escaped from the brochure rack at CVS, dressed up in harsh colors and clip-art injections.
The cover is dominated by a giant syringe pen, towering over everything like the least-inviting mascot imaginable. It’s not stylized, it’s not sleek, it’s just a big, flat illustration slapped on the left-hand side. Instead of inspiring health or confidence, it gives the unsettling energy of a pharmacy training manual.
Then we hit the color scheme. Red, black, and white can be powerful — here, it’s pure aggression. Instead of calm professionalism, the vibe is more “WARNING: SIDE EFFECTS MAY INCLUDE BAD DESIGN.” Toss in the hot pink slab at the bottom, and suddenly we’re in medical pop-art purgatory.
The background anatomy scans are the cherry on top. Half-transparent torsos and brains float behind the text like they wandered in from a radiology PowerPoint. They don’t add clarity, they don’t symbolize anything — they’re just there, cluttering the already chaotic layout.
Typography? Everywhere, all at once.
- Semaglutides screams across the top in oversized red.
- Subtitles, bullet points, and disclaimers cram every available inch of space.
- The author’s name sits in its own giant pink rectangle, as if even it wanted to escape the chaos.
The verdict? Semaglutides isn’t a book cover. It’s a corporate handout taped to the wall of a weight-loss clinic. Between the oversized injector pen, textbook anatomy scans, and text overload, this cover injects only one thing: design failure.