His name is Oskar. He’s Rastafarian.

I met him when I first came to Costa Rica in 2004 and watched him trying to sell his paintings day after day on the beach, sweating, struggling to speak English to the tourists who passed by, working from dusk until the wee hours of the night to make ends meet, some days going without any food in his stomach because he needed the little money he did have to buy more paint.

“I don’t paint to make money,” he would tell me, as I sat with him watching the sun set. “I paint because I believe in art, and I believe that people need art. Therefore, I have an obligation to the universe to make it.”

Talk about noble.

Fast forward eight years, to five minutes earlier than writing this. I’ve just run into Oskar on the street, around the corner from my new apartment.

“Hola amiga!” he enthusiastically yelled to me, his dreads up high in a twisted pony tail. “It’s been so long!”

We exchanged joyous cheek kisses, and when I asked whether he was still painting, a big smile spread across his sun-kissed face. Without saying another word, he pointed across the street and said, “Venga.” Come.

I walked through the doorway to be suddenly greeted by big, bold, splashy abstract paintings of all shapes and sizes, on easels, on display walls, stacked next to one another…and instantly felt a rush of tears hit my eyes.

Oskar had his very own art gallery.

Not only did he have his very own art gallery–not a single piece had a price tag of less than $1500. And they were selling. In fact, as I was arriving, one woman from New  York was leaving with an oversized abstract piece of art that she purchased for $6,000. That’s six thousand U.S. dollars.

As it seemed, Oskar had come a long way from his days of selling $20 paintings on the beach.

I cannot begin to express the flood of happiness I’ve just experienced. I’m so utterly proud of him. I saw how he started. I watched him struggle daily. I saw the fear in his eyes. I saw the flash of disappointment as tourists would walk away empty-handed, day after day. But I also saw the quiet determination. The unwavering dedication. The pure passion. The understanding that this was what he was meant to be doing.

And guess what?

He motherfucking did it.

-

So what I want to say is this.

If a young Rastafarian from Central America, with barely a high school education, with zero access to financial support (i.e. loans), who doesn’t even speak the same language as his customers…can build a thriving business by doing what he loves?

What the hell is your excuse?

What’s any of our excuses?

It seems to me that, in this day and age, we really can have anything we want. All the options are on the table. But on that same token, maybe having all the options in the world isn’t as ideal as we like to believe.

Now, whenever things get too rough, or too complicated, we take the easy way out–we go with Plan B. Because there’s always that option.

But what if you didn’t have another option? What if success were the only way out? What if, like Oskar, you had complete faith that the world needed your talents? Would you make it work then? Might you be farther along the path to success if you had continually believed in yourself and your work, like Oskar always believed in his?

Might you be selling your paintings for $6,000?

And might you be proud knowing it was all worth it?

-

I suppose I should shut up and stop making us all feel like guilty, lazy assholes.

Especially since I know you’re really just wondering when I’m going to get to the part about what really happened the other day at the pharmacy–did I get the injection or not? (If you have no idea what I’m talking about, read this first.)

So I’ll tell you what happened, and then I’ll make a few announcements that I’m excited to make. Ready?

First.

You totally knew I got the shot, right? Was there ever really any doubt in your mind? (For the first time in my life, I was thrilled that I had been keeping up with my squats and lunges.) Though, I certainly wasn’t as witty as you gave me credit for, judging by your comments on what you thought happened. Rather, I awkwardly blurted out something along the lines of, “Oh, God. I forgot how small this town really is.” Totally lame. But he laughed.

I will add that I currently have a sizeable bruise on my butt from that injection. TMI?

Second.

I’ve been keeping something from you. I’ve been keeping something from everyone. But it’s time that you found out.

Next Wednesday, April 11th, The Middle Finger Project website is being re-launched. Again. It is going to be so damn sexy, it’s going to blow your damn mind. I can’t wait to see what you think. In conjunction with some other projects I’ve got going on in the background, the newest re-design was necessary to accommodate our goals. You’ll see soon enough what I mean. But that’s all you’re getting out of me now.

Third.

That said, along with the re-launch of the site, I’ll also be hosting the re-launch of Products + Cash, my online program that teaches service providers how to take their knowledge and package it digitally into product form and sell it, so you can raise the bar this year, have a greater impact, serve more people, and bring in more revenue, too–without having to work more over the long term.

It’s a beautiful fucking thing.

You should not have to trade all of your time for money. You’ll always be limiting yourself if you do. You can (and should) leverage the internet to benefit your customers in new ways, and benefit your bottom line, too, by taking advantage of the systems and automation that’s available to us, if we know how to use it right. If you are not doing this, you’re leaving a whole lot of money on the table–period. So, that’s exciting. Keep an eye out!

Fourth.

On the day of the launch, I’ll also be giving away a free One Night Stand copywriting package, now worth $997. You’ll have to visit the site that day to find out how to win, though. It’s going to be a riot.

Last but not least.

I have a surprise announcement to make. I sincerely hope you’ll come visit on the day of the launch to find out what it is. Things are about to get juicy up in here, baby. Can you feel it?

It’s time to get our Oskar on.

You and me both.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Costa Rica, but contrary to what you may think, one of the greatest things here is not the beach.

Oh no. Definitely not. Nor is it the men. Or the fishing. Or the pineapple that I bragged about eating the other day.

In reality, quite possibly the greatest thing about Costa Rica is-—bongo roll—-the shot.

Contrary to what I know you assholes are thinking, I don’t mean “the shot” as in a shot of liquor. (See? I know you too well. I know that’s where you thought I was going with this.) On the other hand, what I’m referring to is the ginormous syringe of mystery liquid that they inject into you at the pharmacy at the slightest sign of a head cold.

Costa Ricans do not like head colds. Fucking terrified of ‘em. In fact, if you have a stuffy nose, you might as well be quarantined. Work? You can’t work. You have a sore throat! In fact, you might even die! What you need to do is halt everything and haul ass over the pharmacy, STAT.

And then…………the shot.

-

I’ve known about the shot for a while now.

Worked wonders once when I was here as a teenager, shivering and nauseous in 95 degree weather, covered in blankets. My Costa Rican boyfriend immediately left work, came and picked me up, took me to the pharmacy where they injected me on the double.

I kid you not–a mere two hours later I was getting dressed to go to a soccer game in a neighboring town. FELT ABSOLUTELY FINE. In fact, I felt so fine, I want to say I drank a beer and danced on the bleachers. (Total lie, but just go with it.)

I never asked what was in the shot. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t need to know. Hell, I tell people all the time how I’ve never even smoked a cigarette a day in my life–wouldn’t it be funny if I unknowingly took heroin? (Actually, that wouldn’t be funny at all. Never mind.)

So today, on top of having no electricity and no Wifi throughout town, I also happened to wake up with a head cold.

Dun dun dun!

Sound the alarm!

So naturally, the very first thing I do is jump up and down with glee, because I know what this means. I know this means that I now have a reason to go get the shot. And I’m clearly very excited. Oh, the excitement to be had! (I’m secretly just hoping it will help fend off cancer.)

So I walk to the pharmacy around the corner, like any normal person who is unnaturally excited about getting an injection in their ass. Because, you see, the shot is ass-specific. There’s no upper-arm shots here. Uh uh, buddy. Drop your drawers and let’s get the party started.

And I wait. And I wait. I talk to the girl at the counter about her best recommendations for products you can rub in between your legs so the insides don’t get raw and red and DISGUSTINGLY, UNCOMFORTABLY, MAKES-ME-WANT-TO-DROWN-MYSELF-IN-THE-PACIFIC KIND OF CHAFED. Because that happens when you’re a chick who’s approximately 20.2 pounds overweight who tries wearing anything other than pants while living in a tropical climate. Your fucking legs rub together when you walk. Throw some humidity into the mix, and let me tell you something–this is a much bigger problem than you think. It certainly lowers your odds of mastering the mechanical bull at the dive bar up the street–that’s for damn sure. And a girl from Scranton’s gotta represent.

-

Finally, the doctor is ready to see me.

That’s right. A doctor on staff at the pharmacy administers the shot. And even better–you have to go in the back, into a private room, alone with him. This seems illegal. But hey–do as the Romans, right?

So you can imagine the look on my face, in the midst of all of my excitement, when I discover that the doctor in the back, waiting to give me a shot right in my ass is no other than THE GOOD LOOKING MAN I DANCED SALSA WITH ALL OF SATURDAY NIGHT, WHO ASKED ME OUT ON A DATE, WHO I GAVE MY PHONE NUMBER TO, WHO I THOUGHT ABOUT KISSING BUT DIDN’T.

Seriously?

Seriously???

*shakes fist at universe*

I can’t decide, in that very instant, if I should just roll with it, or back out. You see, when getting the shot, they make you lay down on your stomach on a table, pants down, bare butt exposed. And I instantly don’t know if I can do that. Not with this guy. Not with any dignity, anyway. I mean, there’s got to be at least 3 dates before you even come close to seeing my butt. This didn’t feel right. Like cheating. Or people who skip grades in elementary school. Fucking cheaters.

-

That said, let’s play a little game. What do YOU suppose I did?

Do you think I went through with it? Or not?

I want to know.

Because I’m not telling you how the story ends yet.

Leave a comment and tell me what you think happened. Or what you wish happened. Or what you imagine happening. Or what you’d do if this happened to you. And especially what you’d do if a yak were involved. (Not really, but since Sarah from the comments section on this post challenged me to use the word “yak” in my next three posts, obviously there was no way I was going to back down.)

This should be fun.

And clearly this blog post is nothing but fun.

But that’s okay. Because at the end of the day, that’s really what life comes down to–how much fun you had.

Right?

Right.

So, there’s that.

What do you think happened next?

(P.S. Try to keep it PG-13, people! PG-13!)

(P.P.S. Yes, the girl with the blog called The Middle Finger Project actually just said that. Because despite how this all looks, I’m actually a classy chick with principles. I SWEAR.)

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 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 an 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.

On that note, I should probably mention that today is the last day to reserve a spot for a One Night Stand at the current rate of $500. (Also unrelated, but I’m obligated to remind you.)

In case you’ve been rummaging around an ancient indigenous Aztec cave for the past couple of months, and haven’t heard of the One Night Stand, it’s an ultra-sexy way for you to sell more of your services, your product or YOU, by getting me to write 5 pages of your copy.

Copy that works. Copy that sells. Copy that flirts unapologetically with your prospects’ desires. Copy that shows ‘em who’s boss. Copy that makes them wonder how the fuck they ever lived without you before. Copy that rips ‘em off the bench, shoves their face in the asphalt, and makes ‘em scream, “Uncle!” Copy that reflects your motherfucking inner genius–minus the profanity. Maybe. Copy that reflects your soul. Your passion. Your expertise. Your wit. Your authority. And the fact that–hey–you’re the one they’ve been looking for all along. Whether they knew it or not.

So if you want to get down and dirty, click here to book at the rate of $500 before midnight of April 1st, to reserve at current rate, before it switches to $997. Or, email me – ash {at} themiddlefingerproject.org. We’ll work something out.

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.

You should probably leave me a comment, in case I really do die in a car accident with the Vietnamese woman from the nail salon, because if I do, this will be my last post, and you’d feel like a real asshole if you never commented and said hello.

You should at least come to my funeral.

But it’ll be BYOB, probably, since I don’t actually have life insurance, and there will be no one (and no funds) to foot the bill for your lush ass. But you’re still welcome, of course.

Even if you do dig polka dots.

Especially if you dig polka dots.

Just be sure not to get that shit anywhere near my grave.

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

*No research backing this claim exists at present

Growing up, my dad’s favorite line used to be, “Everything in moderation.”

What a riot.

One would assume that, after having those particular words-o-wisdom jack-hammered into my brain at least once per week, that I would have turned out, well, moderate.

I’d think moderately, I’d travel moderately, I’d love moderately, and I’d live moderately.

And I definitely would have drank less tequila at the football house that one night in college. Ahem.

-

I’m not entirely sure at what point the wires got crossed, but I am decidedly anything but.

I’m extreme. Intense. Passionate to a fault.

I am hard fucking core.

With everything.

When I decide to do something, you can consider it done.

If I dedicate myself to your project, I’ll blast it into outer space.

If I create something, it will be the best.

And hell–you don’t even want to know what I’m like in a relationship when I’m into it.

-

I’ll give you my all, but there’s just one problem with that:

I will, without exception, expect the same thing in return.

I’m demanding of the people in my life. I have high expectations of them. And the reason why I have high expectations of them, is because I have high expectations of myself.

I fool around all the time, but I don’t fuck around. There’s a difference.

If you wanna ride with me, then you ride with me. There are no sidelines. There is no grey area. There’s no room for maybe. I have no time for pussy footing.

If we’re going to do something, then take off your skirt, jump head first into the mud, and let’s do it, for christ’s sake. This applies to my clients. This applies to my colleagues. This applies to my friends. This applies to you. This applies to everyone who engages with me for one reason or another. This even applies to the guy who pulled up to me at the gas station in Philly last night, and asked if I could help him out with gas money–you better believe I made him answer a bunch of ridiculous questions, first, like “What’s your favorite color?” “Rainbow sprinkles–yay or nay?” “Just looking at my face, what do you think my name should be?” “Do you believe in life after love?”

Okay, so I didn’t ask him that last question, but the song is in my head and I couldn’t help it. The point is that if I’m going to give you something of me, then you better give me something of you–even if you’re just asking to bum a buck. We had a nice chat, I threw him a $20 spot and took off.

That’s not the world’s greatest example, but I thought you’d appreciate the imagery. However, at the end of the day it comes down to this: No matter who you’re dealing with, or what you’re doing, give 150,000%–ALWAYS. And expect 150,000% back. When you don’t get it, cut your losses.

-

Sorry, dad–I don’t do moderate.

Moderation sets limits for yourself and everyone around you. I don’t do limits, either. I hurdle right over those sons of bitches. One life to live, and one shot to make it what you want. Go big or get the hell out of my face.

I don’t have time for anything less, and frankly, neither do you.

Overdose on passion.

Have a strong opinion.

Stop apologizing.

Get on with it.

Love so much it’s stupid.

Express your every thought.

Be radically unreasonable.

…especially when it comes to the quality of your life.

Scream out your wildest desires in the most blood curdling fashion possible.

And then…act on them.

Ask for what you want.

Or even better–go out there and take it.

Make a fool out of yourself.

Laugh at the serious.

Laugh at yourself.

Laugh at the idiot neighbor with the fanny pack.

Laugh for no reason at all.

Spike everything with vodka.

Be who you came here to be.

Never, ever take less than you’d give.

Give a fuck about something, already.

Give a fuck about yourself.

Just give a fuck, period.

The rest will work itself out.

Promise.

Unless you’re the one with the fanny pack, in which case, I suggest rethinking your entire existence.

Still spike everything with vodka, though. That’s always good advice.

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

So, I had this grand epiphany the other day.

You see, I’ve always wanted a pet peeve. Everyone’s got a pet peeve. At least one. But me? Not so much. I’ve never really had a solid pet peeve of my own, which has clearly left me feeling pretty deprived.

I mean, what kind of a person doesn’t have a pet peeve? A nice person, maybe, but we all know I’m not a nice person. Nice people are only called nice people because no other adjectives come to mind, and when that’s the case, I’ve got news: You’re not a nice person. You’re a dreadfully boring person.

And I’d almost rather be called anything else but nice. But that’s besides the point. Stop distracting me.

Anyway, back to pet peeves, and the fact that I haven’t had any up until now.

Sure, polka dots annoy me. Ditto for people who leave egg yolk on their plate without rinsing it, so then when the person doing the dishes finds it, it’s caked on like super glue. I HATE THOSE PEOPLE. They’re lucky I don’t hide a machine gun underneath the sink.

But none of those things are things I’d categorize as a pet peeve, per se. (On second thought, the egg thing should probably go on the list.)

However, the epiphany of today is that–holy smokes–I do have a pet peeve! I just couldn’t put my finger on it all these years.

Wanna know what it is? Do ya, do ya, do ya?

Of course you do. That’s why you’re still reading.

My pet peeve is one that you and I probably share–whether you realized it yet or not.

It’s this: Lack. Of. Options.

Think about it. It’s why you’re contemplating starting your own online business, or why you’ve already started. When it comes down to it, that’s it, isn’t it? For option’s sake.

Most people instinctively quote the reason as freedom. But freedom is really open-ended. Too open-ended. Realistically, you already have freedom. Technically, you can do whatever you want, whenever you want, whether it feels that way or not. That’s not to say there won’t be consequences, of course, but strictly speaking, consequences are irrelevant. The fact of the matter is that you have freedom already.

But having freedom isn’t the same as having options.

Freedom doesn’t always give you power. There’s nothing guaranteed when you have freedom.

Options, on the other hand, does imply power. It does imply some degree of viability. Options imply freedom, yes, but on the same token, they also imply potential. Options imply a positive outcome. Options imply some sort of guarantee that no matter which one you choose, things will turn out okay.

And that’s the best position to be in of all.

One where you’re calling the shots.

Having a lack of options is a precariously pissy situation to be in.

That’s my pet peeve, and with good reason.

When you don’t have options, you don’t have any control. And when you don’t have control, you don’t have a life–just the illusion of one.

I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my options open.

Options to work how I want, doing what I want, where I want. Options to live in whichever country I please. Options to sleep in if I need to, work late when I need to, or not work at all if I need to. Options to do what matters more, and do less of what doesn’t. Options to take care of what needs to be taken care of, options to help those who need it, and options to buy the expensive tube of lip gloss if I damn well please.

Options to exercise my creativity as much as I desire.

Options to experiment.

Options to play.

Options to discover.

Options to be ME, as much as I can be, and have the world embrace it. (And, in many cases, even pay me for it.)

Options to listen to my soul. Options to follow my instincts. Options to play by the rules….or options to not.

And options to live in ways that I deem most fulfilling.

There’s something to be said about the ability to live in ways you find fulfilling.

Not what your boss finds fulfilling.

Or what the rest of society finds fulfilling.

But what you find fulfilling.

It can also be really scary, too, because having those options means that not only do you have choice, you also have a new sense of responsibility.

To yourself.

To make the right calls. And choose the right way. And live up to your own expectations.

Yet, having the option to do so–scary as it may be–is still so worth it.

After all, if you don’t take responsibility your own fulfillment…who will?

Certainly not those assholes leaving the egg yolk on the plate.

And certainly not me.

After all, I’m not a nice person.

I’m a mover. I’m a shaker. And I’m here to slap you around a little, spin you in circles, sit your ass down, and help you to see that you’re not a nice person, either.

There’s so many better adjectives to describe you.

So many adjectives–and, by extension, advantages–you can use to discover your own options.

Because that, truly, is a gift.

Options.

Remember:  Freedom doesn’t always lead to options. But options, on the other hand, always lead to freedom.

Know the difference.

And then do something about it.

P.S. If you need a place to start, read this post. That should help light a fire under your ass.