Hai cercato la traduzione di what did i not enjoy this week da Inglese a Tagalog

what did i enjoy this week??
what did i enjoy this week??tagalog

what module did i learn this week?
ఈ వారం నేను ఏ మాడ్యూల్ నేర్చుకున్నాను?

what did i do
what would i do

what did i learn
ano s tagalog what did i learn

what did i tell you?
ano ang sinabi ko sa iyo

what did i do today
mga ginawa ko ngayong araw

what did i say about u not sleeping?
hindi ka natutulog

what did i say earlier?
ano ang sinabi ko noon

for what did i do wrong
ano ang nagawa kong mali

what did i do to deserve you
umagang umaga napapakilig mo ako

what did i do to deserve this kind of love and kindness
ano ang nagawa ko para maging marapat sa iyong pagmamahal at kabaitan

what did i do to you bakit mo ako ginaganito
anong kasalanan ko sayo

why aren't you talking to me? what did i do?
kasi mahina single dito

what did i do to lose such things i think i just paid more attention to what i was doing like playing online games and social media
ang ginawa ko para mawala ang mga ganung bagay na iniisip ko mas binigyan pansin ko nalang ung mga pinagkakaabalahan ko katulad ng pag lalaro ng online games at social media

it's like you're a mother. but what did i do i fought you i was ashamed of myself ma'am. i did what i shouldn't. sayu
para na kitang nanay. pero anong ginawa ko lumaban ako sayu nahiya ako sa sarili ko ma'am. nagawa ko ang hindi dapat. ko ko

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