An Open Letter To Forbes Magazine

Dear Forbes Magazine:

Hi. How you doing? It’s Cleveland. Cleveland, Ohio? Yeah, hi. We usually only speak to each other annually – you with your biting zingers and lists against me; me whimpering off in a corner somewhere wondering what I’ve done to offend you. Which leads me to the point of my open letter…

Dude. What the frick?!

Every year, you come out with these lists. Every year, we’re on the list for the worst in something. One year, we were #6 on the America’s Fastest-Dying City list. But now? In the words of J.T. Matthews, now you’ve gone too far. Were #1. Sounds like it should be a compliment, but we’re #1 as America’s Most Miserable City! You named us #4 as America’s Most Stressful City. One of the worst cities for credit card debt. We’re one of the worst cities to rent a home. We even made an appearance on the table for America’s Most Time-Draining Airports (at least we were #70 there). Somehow, we placed 27th on the list of Best Cities For Young Professionals. I’m still trying to figure that one out. But #1? In misery?!

So, what is it, Forbes? What did we ever do to you? Sure, you’ve got U.S. Census Bureaus and tons of statistical data to back up your claims. And, yes, we Clevelanders are a miserable bunch. Our city hasn’t been much to boast about in… well, ever? I mean, we get it. We live here, day in and day out. But we choose to live here. Our sports teams suck (except the CAVS because WOO-HOO… although we did just trade “Z”, so… WWWAAAAAHHAAAAA UH-HEEEEE *breath* EEEEEEEEEHHH *wipes tears*), our residents are overweight, we are culturally commonplace, lacking swank and couth.

We are a podunk Midwest town, victims of the industrial bust, with political officials who could care less about revitalizing the city. Our public schools may as well be how-to prisons. But I have a husband (sports nut), an aunt (public school principal), a mother and grandmother (retired case workers), and a boss (private equity CEO) who would say otherwise. I couldn’t pay any of the people in that list to leave what you (and our sister office in New York) obviously shutter to step foot in. I’ve had people from Minnesota and Chicago tell us our winters suck.

MINNESOTA. CHICAGO.

This city is like a sibling: no one can talk about it but the city dwellers. Residents have a love-hate relationship with this place. We know it’s screwed up. We know it farts at the dinner table. We know it’s got a lazy eye, a wooden tooth and a peg leg. We’re the crazy uncle no one wants to invite over. We’re the ugly girlfriend. We know we’re as used up and worn out as a $2 hooker. But it’s ours and we like it.

So you go on in your hoity-toity offices of New York City. Keep thumbing your noses at us and putting us on your lists. Just remember, when the end of the world comes (be it aliens or asteroids), they always destroy your place first.

I’m just sayin’.

(Oh, and that private equity CEO? Born and raised in New York. So there!)