Alison wants me to post a picture; Cameron wants me to post a picture. I will probably have to do so with a blindfold on.

They want me to post a picture of one of Cameron’s Spam cans.

I do not like the look of Spam. No, Sam, I do not.

For some incredible reason, Cameron likes it. His mother bought him a can. I told him not to eat it, but he did. And he liked it. Or, maybe, just maybe, he likes the way I won’t be in the room when he is eating it or I run past the counter on which someone has put it. Sometimes he will be standing innocently beside me and he will suddenly thrust a can of Spam right up in my face. “Talk to the Spam,” he says.

He also asks, “Do I make fun of your tuna?” That, of course, is different.

I have become paranoid, thinking, “Am I eating off a plate on which has been Spam?”

Now, tomorrow, I must do this thing – this posting of Spam. Because they want me to. Because it will make them happy.

But I will not like it. Not the Spam. No Sam, I will not.