Clayton Counts is a right bastard. In the winter months he sits and stares wistfully out his storefront window, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for progress bars to vanish, playing guitar, staring at his feet and mumbling. Still, he’s pretty sure he enjoys his life. He laughs a lot. He screams with laughter. Just last week he screamed at a JPEG. But screaming isn’t his thing, really. Most of the time he just laughs. When he’s not laughing, he’s thinking about it. Waiting for the right moment, and then BLAM! Another laugh. Often it ramps up, starting out as a snicker and building into a deep, healthy chuckle. Sometimes a deafening roar, or else a billowing guffaw. He opens doors and pulls out chairs for ladies, tutors children, smokes crack and murders things when he’s not painting flowerpots with his toes, and, of course, he enjoys the occasional rousing game of Scrabble. And he minds his manners, unless provoked. He also makes quite enough friends, thank you, that he doesn’t give the first damn about whether some crazy Internet people dislike him or not. Plus, he’s made of iron, so bring it on. Feel free to drop him a line. Please. He’s so lonely. So dead inside.