Hai cercato la traduzione di how many times i scolded by you da Inglese a Tagalog

how many times can i tell you
anong hanap ninyong product

how many times have i been
dalawang beses na ako nakapunta sa enchanted at isang beses naman sa star city

how many times
ilan beses ko na winalisan

for how many times i told you i love you
para sa ilang beses ko sinabi sa iyo

how many times i heard that
tagalog

how many times have i been cheated
sana mabuo ulit

so how many times have you done till date
but hindi natakot sayo

how many times bath the dog
ilan beses paliguan ang aso

how many time you suck my dick
how many time you suck my dick

what is the tagalog how many times do you tell me not to hide our story but u say it to
ano sa tagalog ang how many times that you tell me not to hide our story but u say it to

how many times have we had to wait to build an aircon unit until it finally broke down?
nakailang beses na po kaming ng pagawa ng unit aircon hanggang sa tuluyan na itong masira

be careful with your words because you don't know how many times i repeats in someone's head i will never forget that
be careful with your words because you don 't know how many times i repeats in someone' s head i will never forget that

i hope you sleep well, the way you make me happy all day. thank you jus, for not turning your back on me no matter how many times i lost.
sana masarap tulog mo, the way kung paano mo pasayahin buong araw ko. thank you jus, sa di pag talikod sakin kahit ilang beses akong nawala. sobrang grateful ko kasi kahit napaka landi ko dati tangina may naidulot na bunga at ikaw yon! thank you justine! 🖤

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