It's SO BAD. Very often when I come back from areas like the Tenderloin, Mission District and SOMA, these are the first words out of my mouth. It’s more of a guttural cry, though. But what do they mean? This: Stench. Urine and feces are baked into the sidewalk. The reek of drugs people smoke hang in the air, as does that of unwashed bodies and sick flesh. Combined it’s the unique smell of the area, only broken up with the occasional power-wash and disinfectant cleanser. Filth. Garbage everywhere, blowing around or piling up. Fentanyl foil, empty ice cream containers, smeared paper towels, shed clothing, overflowing trash cans, half-eaten donated food, broken bottles, stolen bikes and suitcases. I see workers cleaning I thank them so profusely they probably think I'm out of my mind. Depression. Despite the incessant “partying,” no one looks happy. Drug users cluster, argue, lean into each other, sit or nod off wherever they can. Many seem exhausted. Their eyes are downcast, vacant, or angry. Those who don’t use - families, senior citizens, immigrants, and shopkeepers - also appear miserable. Neglect. Few seem to be paying attention to the crazinesses around them or the brutality they inflict on themselves and others. Wounds go untended and worsen, unconscious people are stepped over. Dogs neither fed nor played with. Fights play out. Dealers deal, thieves sell. Mentally ill people are ignored. Decay. Not only are living beings falling apart. So too are sidewalks, walls, buildings, businesses. Everything seems to be rotting. Anything of beauty, such as carefully painted murals, is desecrated, ruined. Windows are smashed; bus stops unusable. I want to forget it all as soon as I emerge; to pretend that what I just saw was unreal. I don’t always want to talk about it because it makes me furious and I’d rather concentrate on the lovely things about my city that make me tear up with happiness whenever I return from being away. But the fact is, this is what I mean when I say parts of San Francisco are “so bad.”