検索ワード: i dont say it out of habit (英語 - タガログ語)

i dont just say it out of habit
i dont say it out of habit

i dont say it out of habit just remind you that your the best thing that ever happened to me
hindi ko ito sinasabi nang wala sa ugali

i dont say anything
wala akong masabi sa knila

it's out of my hand
ilabas mo ang kamay ko

just take it out of your pc.
itapon mo nalang yung bracelet na ipinabibigay ko

dont say it if you dont mean it
huwag sabihin ito kung hindi mo ibig sabihin ito

i think a lot but i dont say much
i think a lot but i don't say much

dont say it if you don't mean for it
sabihin mo kung hindi mo ibig sabihin

what is the tagalog no sorry i dont say my location
ano sa tagalog ang no sorry i dont say my location

when i tell you i love you i don't say out of habit i say it to remind you that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me
mahal kita hindi lamang para sa kung ano ka , ngunit para sa kung ano ako kapag kasama kita

you can't use this faucet. it's out of order.
hindi mo pwedeng gamitin ang gripong ito. sira ito.

when it comes to giving our arc i really want to take a stroll right away when it's out of stock
tatlong buwan bago ibigay arc namin kasi

i know i dont say this enough but you are truly appreciated and loved not just on your birthday but every day
i know i dont say this enough but you are truly appreciated and loved not just on your birthday but every day

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