On November 23 rd , 2018, the day after Thanksgiving, John Vincent Kaplan took his own life. He was 43 years old. I met John in September of 1993 when I was 17 and he was 18. We had been set up by a mutual friend, upon whom he had a massive crush. Said friend basically just wanted to get him off her back. John was exactly what my silly adolescent mind considered to be perfect boyfriend material: he was beautiful (vaguely resembled Jim Morrison, his idol); he had the soul of a tortured poet; great singing voice, with a rock star swagger to match; we had the same taste in music, movies and books; we shared the same sick, inappropriate sense of humor. Needless to say, my dumb ass was smitten. We were doomed. It took more than two years for me to realize that I had to end our relationship, and another year and a half before I mustered up the courage to actually end it. By then I was 22 and not the same person I was when I was 17. At 23, John hadn’t changed since the day I met him. I