Boy, oh boy. It’s that time of year again. If I don’t contain myself, I may have an accident.

For an extremely bored reporter, few things rival the sheer delight of going through old notebooks that have accumulated over months. For one, it is a stark reminder that your career has stalled and that you are doing precisely the same thing you were doing a dozen years ago. You are going no place, loser, the content of those notebooks trumpet.

Once the bone-deep depression of that revelation passes, however, notebook inventory is a marvelous thing. You never know what you will find in there.

Once, I found a detailed map to a buried treasure scrawled upon a notebook page. I followed the directions explicitly and found myself downtown. There, in the exact spot marked with a giant X, I discovered that Jim Bennett had put up another building. The sly and eager city manager has cost me another billion in buried booty.

But I digress. My favorite part of thumbing through spent notebooks is the phantom words and phrases found within. These words sit alone on otherwise white paper like skiers who have lost their nerve halfway up the mountain. Without the accompaniment of other words and phrases, these notebook orphans have lost their meaning.

It’s very sad. For instance:

“I’m nervous about it because it’s been a long time.”

What does it mean and who said it? A recently divorced man back on the dating scene? There, there, Born Again Stud. Don’t be nervous. Everything still works the same.

“I like bouncing in this big balloon.” Sure you do, mom. Now come out of there so we can get you back to the home.

Bowl of spaghetti. No quotes, no context, no nothing. Just those three words trying very hard to impart a forgotten secret. Somebody’s last meal? A super-spy code phrase? The description of a criminal suspect’s face? No idea.

“Whoop ass.” I’m fairly certain the line was not uttered by a superior court judge, a school teacher or a nun. So who said it? And why did I find it so compelling that I was inspired to write those two words and nothing more?

“Lithium batteries coming into contact with water.” Completely baffling. Perhaps someone had a mishap with an adult novelty, but you’d think I’d remember that.

“I didn’t see anything.” A line that would fit nicely with the above novelty remark. Only the two lines were found abandoned in different notebooks.

“Milk, catfood, Mr. Clean.” Somebody’s grocery list, no doubt. But whose? And why written in my hand? One thing is for certain. You don’t want to get those items mixed up in the fog of morning.

“Dead things, live things.” Completely nonsensical. It sounds like the start of a haiku written about things found at the side of the road. Or somebody trying to decide what to have for dinner.

Perilous for the reporter is the act of mingling personal business with matters of journalism in your notebook. You don’t want household notes to appear in a news story. You don’t want long descriptions about prostitutes and crack dealers to sit on your coffee table for squeamish company to see, either.

But I cannot imagine that the following list was compiled for something related to news. Even the bold and raucous “b” section people have not covered a story about music and film dedicated to Satan.

“Hotel California, Stairway to Heaven, Sympathy for the Devil, Angel Heart, The Devil’s Advocate, the Crucible, The Devil and Daniel Webster, The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” Written in my hand and I have no idea why. The music lineup for a wedding ceremony in hell, perhaps.

“Pee stain.” The words, not an actual stain. I have no idea why I would write this. Certainly I was describing something, but what is so unlovely that the only words to depict it are these? Maybe it was the start of another haiku. I’m really quite artistic.

“Temporary rest.” This one written in all capital letters at the top of an otherwise empty page. Isn’t all rest temporary? I mean, permanent rest is death. I hope I don’t need to worry about this passage. It has an ominous ring to it, doesn’t it? Quit freaking me out.

And so ends another frolic through the old notebooks before they are sent off to recycling doom. A sad day for all those words who were never understood. Today starts a new chapter and I have a fresh new notebook with which to chronicle its events. But what is this? Something has already been written on page No. 1.

“Write in complete sentences, moron.”

Ah, yes. Another helpful note to self. I’m sure it will confuse the hell out of me next year.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. You can write cryptic e-mail notes to him at [email protected].