I saw this on IG in a grouping of some kind of weird book collection. The other book I remember being in the collection was Earthlings. Sooooooooo this was not *anything* like Earthlings (well MC is female), which makes me wonder what these books were supposed to have in common. I tried to find the reel I saw but most of what I saw for Milk Fed in collections was "20-30 something millennial loneliness" and "likeable mc figuring it out" which is a lot more apt. It was a breeze of a book, I think this might even fall into the Beach Reads After Dark category with a slight edge to it. It wasn't weird so much as sensual. 

So we meet Rachel near the rock bottom of her ED. She has a horrible relationship with her toxic mother and seeks validation and nurturing from all the wrong places. She's bi and possibly questioning her female identity, or at the least, is interested in power dynamics of men and women. 

Every day she gets fat free, sugar free froyo at lunch which is how she meets Miriam. Miriam (and her therapist) help Rachel crawl back to life. It's steamy, and I honestly expected ABF to come up but it didn't. I was braced for much weirder. 

That said, it really does fit into the other two mentioned niches. Other books I found in this niche were from Miranda July ❣️ & Dolly Alderton ❣️. I also saw Eleanor Oliphant, Cleopatra and Frankenstein, and Pizza Girl lumped into the same niche. Yeah, if you liked any of those you'd probably like this. 

What I loved about this book and the passages I highlighted were mainly about were the complicated feelings about your mom. 

“My daughter is only eleven,” she said. “But I only hope that she can one day have your success.” “Let’s not get carried away,” I said. “It’s a blog.” It seemed strange that mothers like Dr. Mahjoub existed in the world—mothers who supported their daughters. I felt jealous of her daughter, that she got to have a mother like that. I told Dr. Mahjoub I hadn’t expected fanfare from my mother. But I’d thought she would at least be a little bit proud. “You were going to the hardware store for milk again,” said Dr. Mahjoub
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“So I’ve been a terrible mother,” said my mother. “I guess I’ve done nothing right.”
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I could feel her opening an emotional spreadsheet that began with the womb.
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as though my mother and I were friends, great friends, as though I were one of those daughters who said, Oh yeah, my mother is my best friend. Those women were upsetting. Mothers who doted on their baby daughters also killed me.
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My mother had never known me either, though it wasn’t because I hadn’t given her a chance. I’d given her a lot of chances. What was saddest was that she didn’t seem to want to know me, not as I was on the inside. I wasn’t even sure if she could grasp that I had an inside, that I was real. Sometimes it seemed impossible that she had ever given birth to me at all. Other times, it made perfect sense that I had lived inside her for so long. It explained why she could only see me as an extension of herself.
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I wondered whether there was a deadline for when a person had to finally stop blaming her mother for her own thoughts.

Another passages that killed me: 
She did it in the softest possible way—like a ghost haunting a place