Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal by Chris Colfer Page B
Authors: Chris Colfer
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person in town with an IQ larger than my shoe size and I don’t hesitate to remind people of that! So go ahead and play all the mind games you want to with me, sweetheart. I’m not accepting that invitation to intimidation any longer. I have nothing to lose and a whole hell of a lot to gain, and this time none of you are stopping me !”
All the color drained from their faces. They were paler than the front row of the Republican National Convention. I had them, I finally had them! But I continued this impromptu performance. I went behind my desk and grabbed the first stack of papers I could find.
“Need some examples? Here are some examples!” I said, and started throwing the paper at them. “Poetry, short stories, essays, scripts, novels, anything ! Write anything as long as it’s in your words and in my hands ASAP! Write about how much you hate me! Write in detail about how much you want to kill me! Okay? NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF MY CLASSROOM! ”
It’s hard to remember what happened next with all that juice in my veins, but I do know they scattered out of that room faster than mice in a cat shelter.
A few minutes later, the Hulk-like alter ego slowly faded away and I came to my senses. My heart was still racing and sweat was dripping down my back. There’s no way sex can feel better than how I felt at that moment.
“Malerie?” I asked in shock. “Did you hear me? Did you see me? That was incredible! I did it! ”
There was no response.
“Malerie?” I said. I looked around the room, but I was alone. I’d even scared Malerie off; she had left with the others. Oh well.
I walked over to the Clovergate board and ripped off all the defaced pictures. I triumphantly wrote, The Clover High Literary Magazine: Now Accepting Submissions across it.
Northwestern, watch out: Next year Carson Phillips is coming…and he’s fucking crazy !
10/24
I had the best dream over the weekend. I was standing in an elevator. It traveled higher and higher. I wondered if it was ever gonna stop.
I was older, not sure by how much. Everything was slightly darker than usual because of the designer shades I was wearing. I looked down and saw that I was wearing a snazzy tailored suit.
The elevator doors opened, and I was at the New Yorker .
Everyone freaked out when they saw me. I was confused by it at first. I had just seen my clothes so I knew I wasn’t having a naked-in-public dream. I strode down a hall and all the employees cowered in fear as I passed. And then I understood it: They were afraid of me because I was their boss! I felt like Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada .
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Phillips, we weren’t expecting you until noon,” said Remy. She was alarmed and wearing a headset; she was my receptionist . “Should I move up your meeting with President Maddow?”
I sighed deeply. “I said I would be here earlier than usual. How was that not clear? An editor should be able to come and go as he pleases without being exposed to incompetence,” I said.
I was editor in chief and I was an asshole . It was great!
“Mr. Phillips, here is your coffee, sir!” said Claire, running up to me with a steaming cup.
“Is this how I like it, Mathews?” I said, never making eye contact with her.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Fresh-ground Mongolian beans, with two teaspoons of Swiss cream, a cube of your favorite zero-calorie noncancerous sugar, and half a shot of Jack Daniel’s.”
“Thank you,” I said to Claire. I took a sip and then immediately splashed the rest in Remy’s face.
“I deserved that,” Remy said. “Also, sir, your mother’s home called. Apparently she’s woken up from her coma.”
I grunted. “Then tell them to up the dosage again. I’m paying them to keep her comatose,” I said. Then I burst through massive double doors leading to my office. Remy and Claire weren’t allowed to follow me in.
My office was as big as a small country. There were golden pillars and a grand
All the color drained from their faces. They were paler than the front row of the Republican National Convention. I had them, I finally had them! But I continued this impromptu performance. I went behind my desk and grabbed the first stack of papers I could find.
“Need some examples? Here are some examples!” I said, and started throwing the paper at them. “Poetry, short stories, essays, scripts, novels, anything ! Write anything as long as it’s in your words and in my hands ASAP! Write about how much you hate me! Write in detail about how much you want to kill me! Okay? NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF MY CLASSROOM! ”
It’s hard to remember what happened next with all that juice in my veins, but I do know they scattered out of that room faster than mice in a cat shelter.
A few minutes later, the Hulk-like alter ego slowly faded away and I came to my senses. My heart was still racing and sweat was dripping down my back. There’s no way sex can feel better than how I felt at that moment.
“Malerie?” I asked in shock. “Did you hear me? Did you see me? That was incredible! I did it! ”
There was no response.
“Malerie?” I said. I looked around the room, but I was alone. I’d even scared Malerie off; she had left with the others. Oh well.
I walked over to the Clovergate board and ripped off all the defaced pictures. I triumphantly wrote, The Clover High Literary Magazine: Now Accepting Submissions across it.
Northwestern, watch out: Next year Carson Phillips is coming…and he’s fucking crazy !
10/24
I had the best dream over the weekend. I was standing in an elevator. It traveled higher and higher. I wondered if it was ever gonna stop.
I was older, not sure by how much. Everything was slightly darker than usual because of the designer shades I was wearing. I looked down and saw that I was wearing a snazzy tailored suit.
The elevator doors opened, and I was at the New Yorker .
Everyone freaked out when they saw me. I was confused by it at first. I had just seen my clothes so I knew I wasn’t having a naked-in-public dream. I strode down a hall and all the employees cowered in fear as I passed. And then I understood it: They were afraid of me because I was their boss! I felt like Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada .
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Phillips, we weren’t expecting you until noon,” said Remy. She was alarmed and wearing a headset; she was my receptionist . “Should I move up your meeting with President Maddow?”
I sighed deeply. “I said I would be here earlier than usual. How was that not clear? An editor should be able to come and go as he pleases without being exposed to incompetence,” I said.
I was editor in chief and I was an asshole . It was great!
“Mr. Phillips, here is your coffee, sir!” said Claire, running up to me with a steaming cup.
“Is this how I like it, Mathews?” I said, never making eye contact with her.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Fresh-ground Mongolian beans, with two teaspoons of Swiss cream, a cube of your favorite zero-calorie noncancerous sugar, and half a shot of Jack Daniel’s.”
“Thank you,” I said to Claire. I took a sip and then immediately splashed the rest in Remy’s face.
“I deserved that,” Remy said. “Also, sir, your mother’s home called. Apparently she’s woken up from her coma.”
I grunted. “Then tell them to up the dosage again. I’m paying them to keep her comatose,” I said. Then I burst through massive double doors leading to my office. Remy and Claire weren’t allowed to follow me in.
My office was as big as a small country. There were golden pillars and a grand
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