Fruit Incest

I don’t live in an apartment next to some middle aged guy. I’m definitely not old enough to get beer binge invitations, at least not legally. And more importantly, there is no Mr. Frederickson. There is a very special person I would like dedicate this to, and I’m sure they know who they are. Here’s to you, the real “Mr. Frederickson” and those who knew him. I do indeed know what it’s like to be surprisingly touched by the loss of someone you barely knew, and I’m sure this wont be the last time. Who knows, maybe it’ll happen again someday, when I’m living in an apartment next to a living breathing Mr. Frederickson, or Mr. Fudd, or Ms. Parr, or some other random surname off the top of my head. It’s also dedicated to everyone else out there who’s been on either part of this sad phenomenon. Here’s to you all.