User Experience (UX) should never be used as a band-aid for core product or service failures.

Imagine a fancy barbershop. You walk in: the aroma is pleasant, the staff is polished, and there's no wait time. You're nestled into a soft, cushioned chair so cozy you drift off to sleep while ordering your cut. An hour later, you wake up, look in the mirror, and the haircut is terrible.

As a customer, would you ever return? No. You would quickly switch to a simpler barbershop that consistently delivers a great cut.

UX: the nice smells, soft seats, and zero wait time can and should never be used as a stand-in for an average or poor-performing experience. Sooner or later, especially with competition, users will notice the difference and switch to a quicker, more reliable, and ultimately more valuable experience.

I’ve spent years moving in and out of the gym—on the floor, off the floor, starting again, stopping again. But this stretch? This one’s been the longest. Two years now. A quiet rhythm.

Most people keep to themselves, focused on breath and metal. However, every once in a while someone approaches me—kind words, praise, or curiosity in their eyes. They ask if there’s a secret. A magic powder. A meal plan. A forbidden food. Something they can follow. And every time, I hate to disappoint. Because there’s no shortcut. No capsule. No ritual I perform that guarantees results.

Truth is, I was born with the strange blessing (and curse) of a body that rarely gains fat. A blessing, yes—but also a lifelong sentence — a bullseye on my back. The taunts, the labels, the jokes I didn’t ask for—they started early and stayed late. Bullying has a way of slipping into your bloodstream, even when you think you’ve left it behind.

Coping wasn’t easy. Still isn’t. But somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting myself. I stopped resenting the mirror. Acceptance, as tired as the word sounds, became survival. This body—this unchosen gift—is still the only vessel I have. It lets me move, travel, laugh, cry, play. It has carried me through joy and pain, and for that, I owe it reverence, not resentment.

To hate this vessel would be to bite the hand that feeds me. And yes, I’ve fallen for the illusion—chased the idea that I could bulk my way out of my genetics. That maybe with enough effort, enough protein, enough obsession, I could cross some imagined finish line. That idea wasn’t always mine; it was sold to me. By trainers I never sought. By bigger guys lifting louder weights. By influencers selling dreams dressed as advice. All of it, rooted in the soft rot of dysmorphia.

I’m grateful I came of age before Ozem and Tren began to be sold like candies. Before biohacks and shortcuts became the currency of self-worth.

Now? I wake up. I show up. I push a little harder than I did yesterday—not for results, not for size, but for honesty. For me.

And that, I’ve learned, is enough.

It’s always been enough.

When I ask people why they hate Comic Sans, I generally hear "It's an ugly font" and nothing more than that; here’s a more objective critique of comic sans (for later). The hurriedly designed font, however was ill-fated to be in desktops all around the globe while the desktop publishing boom happened. In the limited selection of fonts in early Microsoft software, it stood out as the most accessible option, fitting a variety of purposes. This accessibility caused it to be overused to the point people started detesting it — the irony.

History repeats itself with the coveted and celebrated “Ghibli” style being just a prompt away. I will not wade into the murky waters of legality or morality; that discourse has been chewed to pulp on the endless scroll of social media. A multi-billion dollar company has very well factored it in and counts the virality as a win in the popularity contest. The line’s gotta go brr.

Yet let us be clear: style is not substance. Like any trend, it will fade, much like how overexposure turned Comic Sans into an object of disdain. But Ghibli or Miyazaki won’t lose anything because what truly matters is story and immersion — substance beyond aesthetics. This isn’t new. China has an entire industry dedicated to replicating popular products—watches, fashion, paintings—because there’s demand for cheap imitations. But the fakes, in their very existence, reinforce the value of the real. AI-generated content operates similarly, flooding the internet with low-value replicas that, paradoxically, make authentic works more valuable.

What’s been also fascinating is how artists and designers have been fiercely defending Ghibli’s craftsmanship while celebrating AI’s ability to write mid code. The models have been trained on countless Github repos, stack overflow threads and forums, the legality of which is still a blur.

The hypocrisy is evident: AI-generated art is sacrilege, but AI-generated code is liberating. Good code, after all, is an art form—its beauty lying in elegance, efficiency, and the quiet mastery of years of experience. And if craft is to be revered, why should it not be so across disciplines?

What I still don't understand is Big Tech’s endgame. AI models churn out terabytes of meaningless content daily. This essentially seems like tech giants are cannibalising their own storage platforms for essentially meaningless garbage. Sneakers of the trend cycle—Sambas, New Balances, yesterday’s hype—at least have the dignity of disintegration. Unlike the sneakers though, I wonder what value (beyond shareholder value that is) is generated by years of GPU cycles dedicated to mediocrity? Yet it perfectly fits in the society’s narrative of overconsumption of things.

Despite AI’s ability to mimic well, when it comes to art originality isn’t just probability—it’s wit, nuance, and intended unpredictability. The AI-content hangover is already creeping in, a dull nausea of sameness and I don’t think Miyazaki is worried.