It was the darkest, most isolating time in my life, and I have never felt so seen as I did when reading Melissa Broder’s new novel, Milk Fed. I would never go out to eat with people, so I had no friends eating was a strictly private, scientific task, best performed alone in my tiny dorm room. I would go to my morning classes without having eaten since the afternoon before - I have a vivid memory of my stomach rumbling so loudly in one class that the person next to me was actually alarmed by the sound. I could tell you the exact caloric count of everything from a hard-boiled egg to half a cheese stick from 7-11 to a sandwich from the Subway across from my dorm (no cheese, whole wheat flatbread, lettuce, pickles, and oil and vinegar only). Not in the academic sense, but in the culinary one. When I was in college, I was a math whiz.
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