Rick Ross’ Journal: Farewell, Millhouse

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And so my friend leaves us forever for waters not yet charted. A land where the rings are, no doubt, duller. Not as fresh. The only thing thicker than my beard was our bond.

Millhouse, man. I remember when I first saw him, hair flying, Spalding soaring and spinning out of his hand toward the iron, passing through it without a graze. He was the best part of us. He needed but one shoe. I’ll send him a million more. J’s, they’ll be. Air Max 95’s. Shaqnosises. Those new P-Rod 7’s everyone’s talking about. May he tie them tight and well.

The songs I sing now will lack zest. There will be less punch. Sixteen used to not be enough. Now I don’t know that I can fill an entire album with that amount of icy hot flow. Where will Mike go? Where? Someone tell me. Shout beyond the pages of my moleskin and make your energy flow into this Bic and let us write the answers to our questions for my soul aches and speaks the words Memphis to me. Is that the next jersey purchase? Is it? A Grizzlies Mike jersey? I look in the mirror, take off my shirt, put on my Cazal 616 shades, place seven chains around my neck, and say, “Let it be done, then.”

I dapped him up every game I was at. Every single one. LeBron and Dwyane were too good to visit me every time. They felt they were, anyway. Hell, Joel Anthony wouldn’t even pay me respects when he walked passed me during dead balls. With Mike it was every game, though. It did not matter if it was the Bobcats or the Spurs. He was there. Always. Knucks on knucks.

It had been planned for forever. He would be South Beach royalty soon. So soon. Now he’s gone. Amnestied. Another salary dismissed. What is Mickey doing? Riles told him to leave the squad as it was. If it’s not broken then you do not try to fix it. I learned that lesson with a mink I owned once. So it had a little barbecue smell on it. So what? I can’t deal with a little barbecue. A wash later and it’s too small. It couldn’t fit Stalley now and Stalley’s built like the rail skinny guy at work who eats salad sans croutons everyday for lunch and wears casual Asics with cutoff sweatpants.

I’m ranting. I’ll just miss him is what I’m saying. So much.

I’m reminded of Chris Thile. That weird looking dude who sang a lot of the Nickel Creek monsters.

Take every chance you dare, Millhouse. I’ll still be there when you come back down.

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