27 Strings

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I stared relentlessly at the peeling paint on the ceiling, hoping that boredom would kick in and that I could close my eyes, preparing myself for the moment of a lifetime, the moment where I sign my soul away in return for fame, fortune and the females. Could it be possible? Could I be the next notch on the 27 Club post? Would I make the cut or would I just be a one-hit-wonder like most musicians in this day and age? My mind was restless, I couldn't sleep. I sat up, climbed off the bed, snatched an orange from the fruit bowl that was presented on the coffee table in the lounge area, and sunk into the crevices of the worn-out sofa. I bit a chunk out of the flesh of the orange and wedged my thumbs between the skin and the membranes of the segments, peeling off the zest of the fruit and catapulting it into the trashcan as if a basketball player was hoping to score a 3-pointer. I separated the segments and bit one of them in half. It was warm and had disturbed my appetite, but I was hungry and I needed to eat. I popped them, one by one, cringing every time I bit into them, expecting an ooze of lukewarm orange juice. The citric acid coated my tongue like enamel varnish applied to protect the wooden furniture from being weathered away. Now I could tick one thing off the to-do checklist. All I had to do now was to find a way to tranquilise my wild thoughts and get some shut eye. I thought about the sleeping remedies. I remembered that I still had the remaining sleeping tablets from the quack doctor under the passenger seat of my car. I soon recalled the sensation of the lobotomy experience that occurs minutes after you consume them and I definitely didn't want to repeat that splitting headache again.

A question then embodied my mind. What is the Rockstar's philosophy?