Rewritten Paragraph

The ORIGINAL:
It took me forty awhile before I got there, and the apartment was a wreck.
There were beer cans all over the place. It was like a trash can. There were
cigarette butts spilling out of the ashtray and ashes were spread all over the
floor. From the living room, I went into the kitchen. There were more beer
cans. I wondered where my father was. His checkbook was open, but there were
only deposit/withdrawal slips. What had happened? I turned off the TV. I
looked around, at my father’s life.

My Version:
When I finally got to the apartment, I came to the harsh realization that it wasn't an apartment at all, it was a trash heap. The living room was decorated with countless beer cans, either empty or half-full, and full of cigarette butts. The smell of the place was putrid, but I slowly made my way into the kitchen, only to find more. The TV hummed with the background, probably left on for the sake of not feeling so alone than for entertainment. It was in here that I found his checkbook, his check-less check book, bearing only deposit and withdrawl slips. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to make him live this way? Was this really my father's life?