I spent the best years of my punk rock life working for US Borax. We had Boraxo up the wazoo in those days. Since then, I’d completely forgotten about it. The feel of it, grainy, like fine gravel, and stuck in the crevices between your fingers. We had whole cases of the stuff in the office, hundreds of cases tucked away in the basement where I worked, and little sample packets of Boraxo scattered throughout the above ground floors from the lobby to the executive suites in the vast US Borax world headquarters on Wilshire Boulevard. There were fine secretaries, too, and I was a twenty something Mensch and easily distracted. Now strange sensations swirl about. I’m not sure if this is nostalgia, a flashback or maybe allergies.
(To be perfectly honest I have no memory of writing this, and am just as confused as you are. I found it in the drafts folder.)