Hai cercato la traduzione di awkward da Inglese a Tagalog

awkward means
ibig sabihin ng awkward

awkward in bisaya
awkward

ang awkward mo naman
ang awkward naman in person

it's awkward to you
nakakahiya nman sayo

awkward meaning in english
awkward meaning in tagalog

what is awkward in bisaya?
ano ang awkward sa bisaya?

u sure let me know if awkward
mangyaring ipaalam sa akin kung natagpuan mo ito

i guarantee you, i feel awkward
masisiguro ko sa iyo na ako ay may kakayahang umangkop

i don't feel awkward at all.
hindi talaga ako naiilang.

grandpa was awkward in the morning
umagang kakulitan si lolo

avoid complex or awkward word arrangement
tagalog

meaning worse, awkward fit, ill-fitting
kahulugan ng masahol

arab world: salafi awkward moments · global voices
mga bansang arabo: mga salafist, naging tampulan ng biro

i would rather say the awkward words than lose you or for love to fade before it can come true
mas gugustuhin kong sabihin ang mga awkward words

i am still in awe and awkward yet feeling fully blessed as i write this short message.
sinulat ko ang kantang ito para sa aking one and only

dapat tayong sumunod sa rules kasi kung walang rules parang ang pangit ng ating lipunan halos lahat pwede na parang ang awkward
dahil kapag hindi tayo sumunod sa rule ang lipunan natin ay magiging magulo

they remind me of silent minutes after we laugh — awkward, but somehow, i learned to love them.
sa mga salita, sa mga pag-iisip, kung saan ang tanging lugar na maaari kong panatilihin sa iyo — patuloy kong binubuhay muli ang ating mga kwento.

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.
isang mababang kwento ng sining sa tagalog