검색어: pissing my mouth (영어 - 타갈로그어)

i eat my mouth
kainin mo bibig ko

i keep my mouth shut
ikeep my mouth shot up

i will shut my mouth off
tatahimik na ako

i'll close my mouth
isasarado ko na ang request na ito

dont put words in my mouth
your putting words into my mouth

i'll put it in my mouth
gusto ko lalabasan sya sa bibig ko

your putting words into my mouth
your putting words into my mouth

i notice everything but keep my mouth shut
pinipigilan ko ang bibig ko

my mouth has no filter but i want to say
my mouth has no filter but i want

how about you fart in my mouth let me pass out
kumain ng asno

i didn't slip my mouth i intended to say it
i didn 't slip my mouth i intended to say it.

if my mouth doesn't say it my face definitely will
tagalog

i won't let these little things slip out of my mouth
i won 't let these little things slip out of my mouth.

my mouth doesn't hurt at all but my penis is a little chafed.
hindi masakit ang bibig ko, pero parang nagasgas ang titi ko.

mark my words believe me all my words out of my mouth is truth
markahan ang aking mga salita ang lahat ng aking mga salita sa aking bibig maniwala ka sa akin na totoo

it's better to keep my mouth shut than to speak english so tomorrow i'll just sign language first
mas mabuti itikom aking bibig kaysa magsalita ng english kya bukas ang gagamitin ko ay body language

okay i will call you but let’s talk now first. i want to put my rock in your butt and your rock in my mouth ������ can i see your butt open? to tagalog
“okay tatawag ako sa iyo pero mag - uusap muna tayo ngayon.” i want to put my rock in your butt and your rock in my mouth ������ can i see your butt open? to tagalog

. “good morning couz.” she greets me with her lively visage. i bring out a slight wave and smile quietly to greet her back, since my mouth is full with food.
"good morning couz!" masigla niyang pagbati sa'kin, smile at kunting wave lang ang ganti ko palibhasay puno pa ang bibig ko sa kinakain.

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