Sie suchten nach: i don't always take a self but when i do (Englisch - Tagalog)

when you get married in the morning thank you so much for your support even though i don't always know what i said to you and i am a teacher of right and wrong and farm when if you get married we will not forget you. thank you so much and you will always be with me when i have a problem and i paint where sin is and is right and when if you don't have something to say when or how to say it when they want to die i will give you the death of you and come to you if you
hi nang mayung aga salamat gali satanan mo nga supporta sakun bisan diko maaram dakagid permi sa ingod ko kag magtutudlo sakun sang sakto kag sala kag tani nang kung makapamana ka ikaw tani dimokami pag kalimtan kag.madamo gud nga salamat nang kag ara ka permi sa ingod ko kunh may problema ako kag gina paintendi musakon ang sala kag sakto kag nang kung ikaw duman may kinanlan ditaman mahambal kung san o pay arilang kudi nang para ma mati saemo digid ko matak an mati saemo kag ari mankudo kung ki

even if my husband doesn't take care of me, i'm still grateful because he's someone who makes me feel how important you are in his life, and there are a lot of messages when i don't go hungry, always take care of yourself because i'm one of them ka lng jan, musta mo work ganun, kahit paano di me masyadong na stress.di ko na mention name mo kasi alam mo na kong sino ka.ingat din kau lagi jan...salamat sa love and care...
kahit hindi ako care ng asawa ko,nagpapasalamat pa rin ako kasi my isang taong pinaparamdam nya sa akin kung gaano ako ka importante sa buhay nya,at mayat mayat mg messages kung ku main na ako wag magpalipas ng gutom ingatan lagi ang sarili kasi mg isa ka lng jan,musta work mo ganun,kahit paano di me masyadong na stress.di ko na mention name mo kasi alam mo na kong sino ka ingat ka rin lagi jan,at salamat din sa love and care...

a low art [excerpt from the penelopiad] by margaret atwood (canada) now that i’m dead i know everything. this is what i wished would happen, but like so many of my wishes it failed to come true. i know only a few factoids that i didn’t know before. death is much too high a price to pay for the satisfaction of curiosity, needless to say. since being dead — since achieving this state of bonelessness, liplessness, breastlessness —i’ve learned some things i would rather not know, as one does when listening at windows or opening ot her people’s letters. you think you’d like to read minds? think again. down here everyone arrives with a sack, like the sacks used to keep the winds in, but each of these sacks is full of words —words you’ve spoken, words you’ve heard, wo rds that have been said about you. some sacks are very small, others large; my own is of a reasonable size, though a lot of the words in it concern my eminent husband. what a fool he made of me, some say. it was a specialty of his: making fools. he got away with everything, which was another of his specialties: getting away. he was always so plausible. many people have believed that his version of events was the true one, give or take a few murders, a few beautiful seductresses, a few one-eyed monsters. even i believed him, from time to time. i knew he was tricky and a liar, i just didn’t think he would play his tricks and try out his lies on me. hadn’t i been faithful? hadn’t i waited, and waited, and waited, despite the temptation — almost the compulsion — to do otherwise? and what did i amount to, once the official version gained ground? an edifying legend. a stick used to beat other women with. why couldn’t they be as considerate, as trustworthy, as all-suffering as i had been? that was the line they took, the singers, the yarn- spinners. don’t follow my example, i want to scream in your ears — yes, yours! but when i try to scream, i sound like an owl. of course i had inklings, about his slipperiness, his wiliness, his foxiness, his — how can i put this? — his unscrupulousness, but i turned a blind eye. i kept my mouth shut; or if i opened it, i sang his praises. i didn’t contradict, i didn’t ask awkward questions, i didn’t dig deep. i wanted happy endings in those days, and happy endings are best achieved by keeping the right doors locked and going to sleep during the rampages. but after the main events were over and things had become less legendary, i realised how many people were laughing at me behind my back — how they were jeering, making jokes about me, jokes both clean and dirty; how they were turning me into a story, or into several stories, though not the kind of stories i’d prefer to hear about m yself. what can a woman do when scandalous gossip travels the world? if she defends herself she sounds guilty. so i waited some more. now that all the others have run out of air, it’s my t urn to do a little storymaking. i owe it to myself. i’ve had to work myself up to it: it’s a low art, tale-telling. old women go in for it, strolling beggars, blind singers, maidservants, children — folks with time on their hands. once, people would have laughed if i’d tried to play th e minstrel —there’s nothing more preposterous than an aristocrat fumbling around with the arts — but who cares about public opinion now? the opinion of the people down here: the opinions of shadows, of echoes. so i’ll spin a thread of my own.
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