Frivolous Memory #1

I am twelve, and you have been my best friend forever. We've just returned from a week at a vaguely-Christian sleepaway camp and my parents are still away on vacation so I'm staying at your house. I'm laying in your bed, it's 11:30pm, and you've just jumped up to turn the lights on after deciding your room needed to be vacuumed. "What the HELL are you doing?" I snarl at you, having just discovered the confidence to use curse-words but only mild ones like Hell instead of Heck, etc. "It's ELEVEN THIRTY AT NIGHT." I have one eye closed like a pirate because my glasses are off and if I don't close one eye I'll have double vision, but also my right eye will turn inward and then you'll make fun of me and I don't want to take the focus off your insane behaviour. 
"It's disgusting in here," you say matter-of-factly, "Look around. it hasn't been vacuumed in a week." I am in actual disbelief. I don't know what I'm looking for. Bits of paper? Dog hair? My mom vacuums three times a week, but even if she didn't I wouldn't notice.  I am twelve, I don't give a shit. I wonder what it feels like to care about vacuuming.  God, I don't even care about this! I can sleep through anything, even a vacuum. And I do.  

When we wake up we laugh about how I sometimes act like an angry old spouse and how you might actually have OCD. Eventually you cook me some burnt eggs with fried bologna. While we're eating, you start snickering uncontrollably. You're laughing so hard only squeals happen, and eventually I realize you've put dog hair in my food. I hadn't noticed, so I don't care, but I call you a bitch anyway. When my mom picks me up, she marvels at the sparkling-clean kitchen, throws me her best side-eye and says, "I wish you would think to clean the kitchen after you use it." I wonder if I ever will.