“Well, it’s not like waterboarding or the old bamboo under the fingernail kind of torture,” I allowed. “It’s more like a dripping tap that you can’t shut off. Like a constant drip, drip, drip. Or when you’re trying to think of the name of a song but you can’t because you can’t remember who sang it or any of the lyrics, only that you think it was in a movie where some guy holds up a stereo or fist pumps the air or something. Like that Simple Minds song and you could have sworn it was John Cusack in Say Anything, and you can’t think of it for days—it drives you motherfucking crazy—only to find
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