Вы искали: what was that all about, you two? (Английский - Тагальский)

what was the graph all about
how much did your family spend for your education needs

what was that?
ano ang nga nga nga

is all about you becoming
is all about you becoming

what was that for
para saan ito

what was that noise?
ano yung ingay na iyon?

what was that? i didnt see what he hit you with
tinamaan mo ako

you stupid as fuck if you push away someone who is all about you
gusto ko ng isang tao na matakot na mawala ako

im all about you im all about us no baby you never have to question my love and every nigth theres a new crod but its always you im singing about there is only one thise word are going out to oh girl im all about you
im all about you im all about us no baby you never have to question my love and every nigth theres a new crod but its always you im singing about there is one thise word is going out to oh girl im all about you

imissyou so much that all ican't do is dream about you , and wen i dream about you i scream about you and i can't sleep with out you and if i can't sleep without you ill just die without you
sumisigaw ako tungkol sa iyo at hindi ako makatulog kasama ka at kung hindi ako makatulog nang wala ka ng sakit mamatay ka lang nang wala ka

it's all about you make an investment and it generates to bring i high return of profit i will be trading for you and also managing the trading account to bring huge return of profit so you don't have to stress your self
it's all about you make an investment and it generates to bring i high return of profit i will be trading for you and also managing the trading account to bring huge return of profit so you don't have to stress your self

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