Like the late Rodney Dangerfield, Spam does not get any respect. As far as you may be concerned, it lives its life there in a can in your cupboard, just waiting for the day when you’re craving some sort of meat in your sandwich only to find nary a speck in your household.

So you open your cupboard and spy its shiny blue container, welcoming you with open arms. “I won’t let you down. I’ve just been waiting to come alive by allowing you to fry me up, slather me with mustard and throw me down between two slices of bread, where you will then consume the very essence of my being, wash me down with a glass of milk, and then once again fully sated, not acknowledge me again until you get another craving that leads you back to my shiny blue container.”

And you see, Spam is cool with that. That’s the thing about Spam- it’s just too damn easy.

Human beings, regardless of how they may appear in another’s estimation, are not. They are complex individuals, developing gradually and metamorphosing into less abbreviated versions of themselves over time.

Versions that won’t fit in a can.

Unlike Spam, you can’t leave them to sit indefinitely, expecting them to lie in wait for your next moment of desolation when a craving for something with substance, something to take the edge off your inner emptiness, leads you back to the familiar comfort they so freely offer.

Spam is intended to do that. Human beings are not.

Not because they can’t be counted on, not because they’re not loyal, and certainly not because they are unfeeling or lacking in love, but simply because they require more for themselves.

And they’re not afraid to abandon their cans and go after it.