Tatoo
What you see below is a tattoo that I probably administered myself last night. It is a statement, potent, that is: "Big Art Man: Death Be Not Proud," as you can unclearly not see below:

I included my keys in the photograph as a validator that the well-muscled, poorly-tattouxed arm in the photo does indeed belong to me (Phil). If you don't believe me that the keys pictured open the doors of MY life, then you can ask me which lock any of them corresponds to and I could tell you. The bench in the pictures is made from real wood. There is only one pictures.

Having verified the tatooh's uniqueness to my body, I can now set out to explain why it amuses me so:
1) I am not an art man, per se, and even if I was I am not especially big (though well-muscled is another category entirely. So too is suave)
2) This is my second not-real tattoo*
2a) The tattoo is not real
3) The text is so small as to be illegible, yet proclaims me as BIG art man.
4) I am not dead, most likely
5) The black ink smeared all over the place almost instantly, indicating a death of the legibility of the tattoo. Yet, contrary to the second clause of the message, the tattoo stands proud.
6) Today is my first day at school with the tattoo. I am covering it with a long-sleeved shirt. So nobody will get a chance to see the already illegible message, which totally invalidates everything

I, PHiL am not a fan of permanent body art. The message has to change, or you're not thinking.

* I sort of almost got a tattoo in Toronto. I will not say what it was, but you can ask.