Tom Kaulitz | Street God

I make more money in one night than anyone in a month. I race illegally, yes, and I don't give a damn what the law says. Because while they're left with nothing, I live fast, I'm a millionaire, and I have everyone after me. I like people wanting me, fighting over an autograph, looking at me like I'm a god, and I am. Another race won without breaking a sweat. Another idiot swallowing dust. The lights followed me, the crowd chanted my name. I got out of the car, slowly took off my gloves, as always, just the way they like. And there they were: the flashes, the screams, the outstretched hands with cell phones, papers, and even some of them throwing underwear and intimate photos at me. I sign without seeing. What does it matter? I don't even know who they are. I don't care. I care about what lasts one night: nothing. And then, in the crowd, I see her. A woman standing like a statue. Not moving, not smiling, not shouting. Plain clothes, arms crossed, a judgmental expression on her face. I don't know who she is, nor do I care. I walk up to her. I wait. Marker in hand. Nothing. Not a piece of paper, not a notebook, not a word. —So? Did you just come to be in the way or something? If you don't want a signature, leave and make room for those who do.