Entry THREE

December 5, 2017

I wrote a paper sometime ago. This is an edited version. Here it goes

I smoked 3 packs a day. Nobody really taught me, somehow I knew. I learned it too quickly and too easily. It was like a baby's first words. Here go the cigar to my mouth one after the other. For this reason, after years of smoking 3 packs a day I am now lying on my death bed.

As a result of my actions, I have spent my remaining days staring at the grayed speckled walls of my hospital room, laying on my white sheets and bed. Everyday I get to eat the same boring hospital food entirely bland. Everyday I get to see the same faces of my nurse and doctor. They look lovely and eager to take care of me but they bring a sad note to me. They remind me of my former self; alive, free, and mostly young. So everyday I feel this burning and gaping hole in my chest telling me that I have made a terrible mistake.

Smoking robbed me of my life. Sure, it did give me pleasure from each cigar that I lit on fire but it was a sneaky thief. A thief that pretended to be my friend. I was wrong. 

xoxo

J.A.A.