I couldn’t help notice the giant artificial web you put on the bushes where I live. As an experienced web designer myself, I wanted to share some feedback and get a couple things off my thorax.

Let’s start with the layout. What type of web is this supposed to be? Certainly not a classic orb web, or an on-trend funnel web. I wouldn’t have recognized this as a web at all if not for the kitschy and offensive fake spiders scattered on top. Given how your structureless “web” is flaccidly draped over the bushes I’ve called home for years, I’d say it’s more like a net or a veil. Whatever it is, it’s a most unwelcome addition to the neighborhood.

As for the material, I would expect a colorless, reflective silk, but you’ve chosen a clinical yet tacky off-white (hex code #fcfcfc). And the fabric lacks the tensile strength and adhesive properties that reflect current web standards. Clearly, you didn’t bother to read the style guide. If you had, you’d also know that silk must be sourced from the designer’s own abdomen. I've been watching your abdomen closely, and at no point have I seen any material issuing forth from it.

Your “web” may be aesthetically hideous, but ugly webs can redeem themselves with superb functionality that addresses core arachnid user needs: ensnaring insects to eat, securing egg sacs, and serving as a modular live/work space. However, you managed to turn your back on both form and function. I tested out the flow and found it too frictionless to catch any insects—the only creature your abomination seems to have captured is a very distressed sparrow. I also fell off the fabric when I tried to walk upside down, which is a blatant violation of accessibility guidelines. Haven’t you heard of user empathy?

Your design’s overall ecosystem impact is memorably catastrophic for numerous stakeholders in this bush. I’ve tried to keep my feedback professional, but how can I when a dozen webs, including my own, were destroyed during the implementation of your cursed death blanket? I’ve lost my egg sacs, which contain the 1,000 babies I’m expecting. Even if I rebuild my web and recover the egg sacs, it will be impossible to feed my family now that you’ve thoroughly insect-proofed this bush with your vile netting.

It’s too bad we don’t eat birds, because now a second sparrow is stuck, and I’d do anything to end the terrible ruckus they’re making. Maybe I’ll move across the street to the Gillums. They have a nicer fake web that they put on their front porch, where it won’t negatively impact key stakeholders. If only you’d stopped to research the competitive landscape.

Maybe the best way to understand this piece is not through the lens of functional design, but as a work of performance art. Specifically, a work that asks: how is the act of creation colored when its product is fundamentally destructive and ruins the lives of any spiders and birds living in the bushes outside one’s house? The only other explanation is that you’re secretly working for the insects who want to avoid the sticky clutches of my web. Have you met with any flies or moths? Are you on their payroll? Maybe you are an insect! Or a seething mass of insects wearing a human costume! That would be a more palatable explanation of this degree of incompetence.

In the brief moments between fantasies of demolishing your house, I did come up with some actionable feedback. Spiders sometimes eat old webs to recoup the protein for future silk production. I think it’s only fair for you to do the same with your drug store knock-off. And please stop wearing that “web design bootcamp” shirt.