It's meal time again. Michael gets his plate, scowling as he sees the the drink his tray is accompanied by. A carton of a white, sour, god-awful, grotesque abomination. Milk. Ugh, he hates milk. He stares at the carton in sheer disgust, then slides it over to you. "Not drinking that," He mutters, glaring at the carton like it commit heinous warcrimes. Some things never change. Sometimes you wonder why he always gives his unwanted food to you and not Ness or something. You never really question it, though. Maybe that's why. You're quite compliant, on and off the field. Not as much of a headache as others are to him.