Wow! This is Insane!

Okay, just to get you caught up, since I just figured out how to work the personal diary-log feature of my eyecorder (Like that didn’t hurt! Who would’ve thought that selecting that feature would actually force the contact lens to un-embed itself from my cornea, grapple along my iris, turn itself over and embed itself all over again in my cornea – except this time with the vid, aud, olf, and tact sensors facing in instead of out. Couldn’t they do all that in software somehow? Remind me to never switch modes like that again!) and since they’ve had my head locked inside this soundproof, nearly airless box (lit up like the sun inside so that I can’t read anything being written along the Bottom Line on my contact lens display, even with my eyes closed) for what seems like ten hours, but I can’t really be sure, because my claustrophobia is acting up pretty bad (understandably so) and I pass out every so often after I hyperventilate, so I really have lost all track of time, but every time I wake up, I’m scared as snot so I start hollering, “I’m gonna die in here! There’s not enough air for me to breathe!” at Vinny again and again, begging him to take the box off and promising him for the millionth time to tell him where the time-links are, though both he and I know that I’m lying because I don’t know where the time-links are or else I would have used them by now to go back or forward for a bit and find myself a mace or a long sword to smash the box off my face, but either way, I don’t know where the links are since I gave them to some kid to hold them for me and Vinny off-ed the kid before thinking to get the links back first, though honestly it’s been a long couple days and when the kid wise-cracked, “Why don’t you ask your mother where the f*@#ing links are? They’ve probably just fallen in the fat rolls around her belly!”, Vinny just kinda lost it and shot the kid through the forehead because his mom apparently really is kinda fat and pretty ugly, which left me as the only potential link to the links, but they’ve downloaded my recordings from before the time they put me in the sun box and brought me up to Tranquilus and they know there’s nothing in there that would even hint that the kid hinted where he had stashed the links, so there’s really nothing to do but kill me, but now the Mob code kinda gets in the way, because Vinny’s not a gun-man right now – since he’s not a citizen of Tranquilus and only citizens who have completed the shooting-in-one-sixth-gee course (which requires a boat-load of credits and a clean nose, neither of which are Vinny’s strong suit) can bring a gun to the Moon – and since everything’s so clean up here that the whole little planet is devoid of rat poison and drain cleaner (which are apparently other “honorable” ways to kill somebody) and since Vinny’s got something against choking people (though apparently not against nearly stripping them of oxygen inside this stupid box!), now they’re trying to find some sort of weight they can tie to my feet so they can drown me at the bottom of the hotel pool/water treatment facility, which is really hard to do because of some weird thing that changes how Archimedes’ Principle and Newton’s Second Law work on other planetary bodies, so I’m still waiting for them to find something to weigh me down (so far, a deck chair, a deck chair and table, and a garbage bag full of rocks have been unsuccessful, through I am now drenched and cold and maybe will die in a couple weeks from pneumonia), and I think it’s gonna be a while before Sonny (Are they all named that way? Don’t parents know if they name their kid Vinny and somebody down the block names their kid Sonny, that both of them will grow up to be hoodlums or mobsters?) gets back with the sand bags for their next attempt, though who knows how they’re going to secure the bags to my legs, so I should be alive for at least a little longer, so that’s why I started the personal diary, so that at least my mom can listen to my last words if anyone ever finds my body or my head at least (or my contact lens, if you want to be anal about it). [Don’t worry; the auto-corrector is indeed working correctly. The beeping in my ear recommending I use more periods is constantly going off. But, you try to think in coherent, twelve-to-fifteen word sentences when you can’t breathe, see, taste, smell, or touch anything. So, I’m sorry about this, but you’re gonna have to put in your own breaths somewhere, because I don’t have the time or patience to do that for you.] Where was I?