The Peninsula Manifesto
There are vortices in San Francisco. Columns of energy, invisible to the untrained eye, that seize the hearts of men and drag them towards that great yawning maw of “shareholder value.” In their wake, they leave tortured husks gliding vacantly on their electric scooters. No appetite for anything but Soylent. $300K in total compensation but zero bitches. The brain crumbles like chalk under this amount of psychic damage.
How can one resist these forces?
Living in the Peninsula offers a compromise. You will own a car. You will live in a suburban pod. The tasteful wine bar banter is non-negotiable. But in exchange, you’re allowed to retain a grasp on your sanity.
At its core, peninsula-maxxing is a rejection of auto-sacrifice to false gods. You are allowed to spend the “best years of your life” in a place that isn’t drowned in misery and bodily expulsions. You are allowed to collect a fat check for at most twenty hours of work a week. You don’t need to stand out. You don’t need to be big on Twitter.
San Francisco is still a brief drive away, should you ever need to visit. Far closer than from South Bay or East Bay.
Here we put forward an online writing collective known as the Peninsula Society, dedicated to spreading the virtues of peninsula-maxxing to the filthy huddled masses:
Inshallah, this great Babylon will soon be wiped from the face of the earth. Only single-family homes and strip malls will remain.