Você procurou por: thanks a lot for the wonderful chat (Inglês - Tagalo)

thanks a lot
salamat nang marami

thanks a lot guys.
salamat sa inyong lahat.

it means a lot for me
maraming kahulugan ito sa akin

i dont want a lot for christmas
ang tangi kong hiling sa pasko ay ikaw

i don't want a lot for christmas
ayoko ng maraming para sa pasko

since i've saw a lot of changes and enhancements for the past
kaysa sa dati

i've done a lot to myself i always go to bed early to complete what they say 8 hours sleep because i've learned to take care of myself to be a better person because you have to adjust yourself first so no one else can tell you i see myself i do for the next level myself
marami ako ginawa sa aking sarili lagi akong natutulog ng maaga para makumpleto ang sinasabi nilang 8 hours sleep dahil natuto na akong alagaan ang aking sarili para maging better person dahil kailngan mo muna ayusin ang sarili para wala masabi sayo ang ibang tao nakikita ko na yung sarili ko para sa next level ng aking sarili

i want to do a lot in my life, for example i can make up for all my mistakes so that i can correct everything, because every time i think about all the mistakes i made i regret i ask myself why i did those things, maybe there is a reason why i did all that so that i can learn from my mistakes for the next time i will not do it again.
madami akong gustong gawin sa buhay ko, halimbawa nalang maibalik ko lahat ng pagkakamali ko para maitama ko lahat, kasi sa tuwing naiisip ko lahat ng kamalian na ginawa ko nagsisisi ako tinatanong ko sa sarili ko bakit ko nagawa yung mga bagay na yon, siguro nga may rason bakit ko ginawa lahat yon para matuto ako sa mga kamalian ko para sa susunod hindi ko na gagawin.

hello monique, i'm fine, thank you. you also always be careful. thank you for the time i spent with you. i learned a lot from sa atin.
hello monique, okay lang naman ako, salamat ah. ikaw din ingat ka palagi. salamat sa mga oras na nakasama kita noon. marami akong natutunan satin.

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