My name is Caroline Hyde, and I love Little Caesar’s pizza.

Okay, yeah, I know: There are a multitude of better pizza options out there in the world. My dorm is just a mere two minute walk away from a Domino’s, and the beauty of online ordering allows me to order a custom-made pie from Papa John’s and Hungry Howie’s without the uncomfortable process of talking to another living, breathing human being. But Little Caesar’s? They’re old fashioned. If you want a Hot N’ Ready (affectionately referred to by my older sister as a Hot N’ Schweaty), you need the means of transportation in order to get said pizza. There are no delivery services, so obtaining the mediocre pizza that I know and crave the most is virtually a no-go while I’m on campus and without a car. And people wonder why I’m so needy.

I suppose I should explain why I love Little Caesar’s so much. Back in elementary school, every Friday night after swimming lessons, I would look forward to a reserved seat in front of the TV tuned in to Cartoon Network’s weekend special Cartoon Cartoons, along with a small cheese pizza sitting in my lap and an uninterrupted evening of TV bliss. I was a pretty small kid growing up (I was incredibly picky about my food selection and it happened to show a bit in my frame), but when it came to Little Caesar’s, my jaw would unhinge like a snake’s if it meant getting that cheesy pie into my body as quickly as possible. I was extremely territorial about it, too; I’d sooner give up one of my limbs before I allowed my dad a bite of my precious cardboard slab of a pizza. And if my Friday night ritual was ever postponed or ignored, you can bet that I was insanely salty about it. When I was seven, my oldest sister got married on a Friday night. Usually a detail of that size is forgotten about over the years. But I remembered. Oh, I remembered.

Nowadays I'm nowhere near as picky and bitter as I once was as a child, but as I'm chomping down on a slice of Domino's just know that my heart is always with another.

You all can have your Pizza Huts and your Jets’, but there’s something about my boy LC and his grainy, almost wet-cardboard-y crust and sweaty cheese that somehow perspires instead of producing an orange grease like every other pizza I’ve encountered. No napkin dabbing required! Also, the sauce is weirdly stationary. There’s something comforting about looking down at an orange checkered Little Caesar’s pizza box and seeing the cartoon profile of a once great Roman emperor, minimized and reduced into a cutesy little man holding a staff with pizzas pierced through it in order to fuel the capitalist agenda of consuming things that you’d probably be better off not putting inside of your body. I love it.

“Pizza, pizza!”

Pizza, pizza, indeed, my little man.

In conclusion, I am no way affiliated with Little Caesar’s pizza and this whole rant was completely of my own free will. Please don’t sue me. Thank you. I love you, Little Caesar’s.