Can we please talk about the fact that tonight, I’m getting a ride to the airport from a random, way-skinnier-than-me (and probably you) Vietnamese woman named Kim, who works at the random nail salon where I got a pedicure yesterday?

Yeah. That’s fucking weird, and it’s totally happening. And I’m totally excited about it, mostly so I can write about it here, which obviously benefits us all, but also so I can attempt to force feed her some lard while cruising down the interstate at high speeds in her mint green, 1999 Geo Prism.

Actually, that’s a total lie.

Not the part about the lard (the Crisco is already packed and ready to go)–the part about what she drives. I actually have no idea what she drives, but judging by the schizophrenic polka dot design on her toenails, I feel like I’m onto something.

Kim and I? We’re going to be pals.

And while all of that is hilariously random and nearly guarantees a solid 45 minutes of awkward car ride just brimming with forced conversation that preferably revolves around alien life and the correct pronunciation of Nguyen–this what you do when you lack options. You get out there and you make some.

Yes. That includes options on getting to the airport.

This past week, I managed to hand make a few more options, myself.–

In approximately 3 days, I:

• Found someone to take over the lease on my apartment in the United States
• Sold my sofa and remaining pieces of furniture (want the volleyball and this unused bottle of skin firming lotion, too? Sure!) to a suspiciously nice man named Rusty who rode a Harley, had a red beard and asked me out for beers afterward
• Purchased a storage unit to toss the ol’ Batmobile into (seriously, for $100 a month, a car is the last thing I’m going to let stop me)
• Got hooked up with Earth Class Mail, who will receive my mail, scan it, email it to me, and then shred it (if you don’t know about this yet, you should probably reevaluate your existence)
• Bitched out Vinberto, who doesn’t want to let me cancel my gym membership (he will, so help me God Bill Burr)
• Actually moved out of said apartment (She wanted to move in by Saturday, which meant I needed to be out by yesterday. Mission accomplished.)
• Wrapped up other loose ends, like disconnecting my cable and internet, returning the machines (why doesn’t that seem like the right word?) to Comcast, suspending my cell service, and spraying on as much self-tanner as physically fucking possible in a 72 hour time frame without turning into a carrot (Is that even possible? I’m totally like a carrot now, aren’t I? A carrot in denial. A carrot in denial who is well aware of the fact that she will soon be adorning herself in skimpier-than-ideal clothing. See?! I knew I shouldn’t have caved on the skin firming lotion.)

I’m on my way to Costa Rica, one of my homes away from home, and will be hanging in Central America a bit.

Due to some unfortunate circumstances that transpired this past week, it’s what I need to do. Sounds tough, right? Well, actually, this past week was, and believe it or not, a spontaneous move to Costa Rica is what makes the most sense right now, given those circumstances. (God that was vague.) (Needs to be, at this point.) (I really hope I don’t look like a carrot.) (Is Montel Williams still alive?)

Anyway, I wanted to write about this, not only so I could commemorate the fact that I am, in fact, paying a strange Vietnamese woman from a nail salon to take me to the airport (surely this needs to go in the memoir that I have not yet announced but am sort of doing right this very instant via a sneakily long parenthetical comment, and can’t wait to tell you more about it and really hope for your support) but because I know a lot of you have similar goals to perhaps travel–even if it isn’t long term–or do something else inspiring, and I wanted to give you a big, giant, steel-toed kick to the teeth, throw you down in a pool of hot sauce, and then slap a sign on your back that reads, “If Ash can make it happen in 3 days flat, despite trying times and pain-in-the-ass logistics, then I can certainly do it in the next 3 months if I really want to.”

Ahhhhhhhh. There. I feel much better now.

You know as well as I do that, half the time, that’s what we do around here–give big, giant, kicks to the teeth. And clearly I wouldn’t be doing this blog justice if I were to leave out this particular kick to the teeth.–

At the end of the day, logistics are just that–logistics.

They’re details that need to be sorted–not life-limiting barriers. Even when they feel like they are.

“I can’t go anywhere because I’m in an apartment lease.” Oh yeah?

“I wouldn’t know what to do with my car.” Realllllly?

“I don’t have enough clients to support me.” Get crackin’, then.

“I don’t think I can spray self-tanner on as good as you.” Well, that’s probably true.

Know what it comes down to?

ASKING.

Finding out what your existing options are.

And then making your own when none exist.

Do not let a logistical assumption on your part dictate your life plans.

Always know your options.

And then learn how to take the motherfucking yak by the horns, and exercise ’em.

This pony ride on earth is just too short to do anything but.

(How happy are you that I finagled the word “yak” into this blog post?)

Remember what I always inappropriately blurt out during fancy cocktail parties: Excuses are for other people. Let the losers worry about losing.

Oh, who am I kidding?

We all know they don’t let me into fancy cocktail parties. Only people with real tans and polka dotted toenails.

In sum, I think there’s a few key points here worth considering:

• Yak is clearly my new favorite word
• The name “Rusty” is, in fact, way more synonymous with having a red beard than you think
• Always have life insurance in case you get into a random car accident with strangers and die
• You probably have more options than you think
• In Costa Rica, I will most likely go to my favorite pineapple vendor every single day, ask him to use his ferocious machete to cut half a pineapple up for me in cubes, and then carry it around with me all day long. Exception: When my lips are burnt. Eating pineapple when your lips are burnt is approximately as painful as giving birth to triplets.* This relates to the story in no way at all, but seemed like a respectable bullet point to end the list with. Or any list, really.

And now, I’m outta here. This post is way too long. Apparently I’m a rambler when I wake at 3am and decide it’s the perfect time to write a post.

I need about 4 more white tee-shirts still. And sexy sandals. And hot pink everything. Except I hate hot pink. So we’ll see if I actually follow through on that.

The Middle Finger Project. Not Your Grandmother’s Blog.

*No research backing this claim exists at present