Ugh...what do you think of my writing?

Okay, this is the beginning of some story I'm never going to work on again. However, it's a good example of my writing style, which is what I want critiqued here. Again, I want your opinions on my writing, not the story!

Please refrain from simple answers like, "It's good!" "It sucks!" "You fail at life, go die!" I'd like to know the reasoning behind your thoughts. :3 (Also, this is a first draft, so I expect you to find mistakes.)

Here goes:

I kicked off my shoes as I entered the room and fell onto the couch. My face landed in a pillow; I didn’t even bother to move from the mildly uncomfortable position. It had been a long day, a very long day, and all I really wanted to do was spend the next ten hours being dead to the world.

“Kylie!”

I groaned as a very energetic twelve-year-old landed on my back and started shaking my shoulders. I tried to swat him away, but my pitiful attempts failed to bring the desired result.

“Jake, go away,” I mumbled into the pillow. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Come on, Ky, you told me we’d go play soccer tonight,” he whined.

I rolled over and glowered up at him. He was a heartbreaker in the making, with wild brown hair that refused to be tamed and large blue eyes that looked completely innocent, even when he was in the middle of replacing your shampoo with a ketchup-mustard-soy sauce combo.

“Can’t we go tomorrow?” I complained.

Jake shook his head and grabbed me by the wrists to haul me to my feet. I went limp to hamper him with dead weight, but he compromised by dragging me off the couch to the space between the dust ruffle and the coffee table. I stayed there, immobile, not caring that my face was mashed into the carpet and the leg of the table.

“Nooooooo,” I droned.

“Yeessssss,” he answered, now pulling my ankles. “I’ll drag you out to the car!”

“Don’t you dare touch my car,” I warned him. “Keep your fingers off my Camaro.”

He immediately let go of my ankles and began backing toward the door.

“I’m gonna put fingerprints all over the windshield,” he told me. “And I’m gonna dump that weird bowl of mac’n’cheese in the back of the fridge in your backseat!”

I was on my feet in an instant, tackling him to the ground as he turned and made for the kitchen. We wrestled on the carpet for a minute or so before I pinned him to the floor with my six years of extra weight.

“Okay, okay, fine,” I panted as he lay obediently underneath me. “Go get the ball while I change.”

“Okay!” he replied happily. He leapt to his feet and darted to his room when I released him.

I made my way more slowly to my bedroom, my feet aching from my sixth night in a row of working. The last thing I really wanted to do that evening was to play soccer with my hyperactive little brother, but it was either that or come home on the night of our parents’ return from vacation to find the house completely trashed and my butt on the line. With much weariness, I shed my work clothes and pulled on instead a pair of gym shorts and an old t-shirt that was already covered in grass stains from past excursions to the soccer field.

“All right, pooper-scooper, let’s go!” I called as I strode down the hall. He emerged from the kitchen, piece of cold pizza in hand, while I was slipping on my sneakers.

“Uh-uh, put it back,” I said, pointing to the kitchen. “I’m not letting Mom and Dad chew me out because you couldn’t keep your paws out of the leftovers.”

“Aw, come on, Ky!”

“No. Eat an apple if you’re that hungry. Go, put it back.”

He groaned and dragged his feet back into the kitchen. I watched him return the pizza to its box and come back to the entryway before I opened the door and ushered him onto the driveway.