As anyone who's ever gone under the knife in a desperate attempt to stay competitive with the kittens who keep stealing all the fresh cougar bait knows all too well, facelifts don't last forever. Those who remember the last time we elected for some minor blogoplasty can probably guess that the surgeon interrupted us before we could get out a single response to his "tell me what you don't like about yourself" invitation, choosing instead to go batshit upon our humbled, naked form with his unforgiving grease pencil. We're still a little unsure about the results, but he did gently whisper a promise that we'll come to love his work once the swelling goes down as we luxuriated on his bearskin rug, exhausted from a vigorous round of coitus.