“I rolled my eyes. I had just added jewel thief to my resume and almost got killed by some thug, and all my brother could think of was fancy umbrellas and tropical drinks on a beach.”

“I rolled my eyes at his exuberance. “I have an older brother,” I said. “He got all the sports knowledge. I learned how to bake cookies.”

“I had this dream that my life was a rolling canvas. Everyday it rolled off the sheet, bleached white, into the beach of my life. Come sunup, I'd begin to paint it with my thoughts and actions. My breathing, my living, and my dying. Some days the pictures pleased me, maybe pleased others, pleased God himself, but some days, some months, even some years, they didn't, and I didn't ever want to look at them again. But the thing is this . . . every day, no matter what I'd painted the day before, I got a new canvas, washed white. 'Cause each night the tide rolled in, scrubbed it clean, and receded, taking it's stains with it. And my dreams . . . I just stood on the beach and watched all that stuff wash out to sea.- Nothing more than ripples in the water. No canvas is ever stained clean through. Not one.”

“My eyes rolled so far back in my head that I could see myself think”

“I was rolling my eyes so hard that I was sure one of my retinas had just detached itself”

“I rolled my eyes so far into the top of my head I almost fell over backward.”