First, you must have tried other food and been unfulfilled. If you’re looking to move quickly, an unseasoned casserole will do, or slightly burnt toast, in a pinch.
You must have sat in the grass for at least fifteen minutes. You must be ready to exaggerate your time of contemplation should anyone ever ask it.
You must have reached a point. You know the one.
You must have asked at least one person “Would this bother you?” They must be too far away to hear the question. Preferably, they have on ear muffs, or are talking intently with someone they wish to impress.
You must first pluck the grass and see if that satisfies your cravings. You may make the grass into shapes. You may twist it, tear it. Smell it. Maybe—if you can get away with it—lick it.
Don’t be discouraged, though. You needn’t have tasted grass to try a handful of the earth.
Ask another passerby “Would this bother you?” This time only say it in your head.
You must have one other drastic act lined up afterwards, so you can either prove you’ve lost it (if you do it) or prove you haven’t (if you don’t). Note this will only work on those who mistake restraint as sanity.
You must be entirely ambivalent about the ground beneath you. It may not be a special location, it may not hold nostalgia. Playgrounds and sports fields are permissible, but only if you did not enjoy yourself.
You must count to ten. Then breathe out. Then count to ten. Then breathe out. Keep going until you can’t distinguish between air and numbers, until they go down your lungs with the same lackluster.
Cackle and see stars in your eyes, if you’d like.
Spit, but not disruptively, if you’d like.
Ask someone “Would this bother you?” again. This time say it with the soil already in your mouth. Say it with the grass already in your teeth. Say it with the bugs already in your throat.
