WHY DOES THIS PIZZA TASTE BETTER AFTER MIDNIGHT?

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It’s a question that haunts every student, and probably every alum, who’s navigated the late-night labyrinth of an elite institution. That cold, or sometimes lukewarm, slice of pepperoni or plain cheese. You've been wrestling with a problem set since dinner, the library lights hum a low drone, and suddenly, the clock strikes twelve. Or one. Or two. And then, the revelation: this pizza, perhaps objectively mediocre, tastes like manna from heaven, an otherworldly reward.

Why? It’s more than just hunger. It's the culmination of hours spent pushing intellectual boundaries, the quiet hum of exhaustion settling in, the shared silent solidarity with fellow insomniacs in the common room or study lounge. This isn't merely fuel; it's a sacred ritual, a sacrament. It signifies a brief, precious pause from the relentless academic pursuit, a moment of deep respite from demands. It's the taste of a battle almost won, or at least, a temporary truce declared against the onslaught of deadlines.

For current students, it’s the immediate, tangible reward for unwavering perseverance, a beacon in the academic darkness. For alumni, it’s a potent, almost visceral memory trigger, a taste that instantly transports us back to those formative years. It wasn't merely sustenance; it was a steadfast companion, a silent witness to our breakthroughs, our frustrations, our quiet moments of despair, and the sudden, exhilarating bursts of clarity. It reminds us that even in the most intellectually rigorous and demanding environments, the simplest comforts, shared in the quiet solitude or collective camaraderie of the wee hours, forge the deepest bonds and define our unique journey. That midnight pizza, in its humble glory, encapsulates the entire existential struggle and triumph of the experience.