Tuesday's lament

In which I debrief all readers on the state of my stomach. Ladies and gentlemen, the state of my stomach is... crap. I've had stomach issues for years but it seems that my stint at Superfirm has finally transformed what was the functioning centerpiece of my gastro-intestinal tract into an agitating digestive pugilist. I can't eat anything. It's been bad for a few weeks but I'm now at the point where I can barely eat a bowl of watery campbell's chicken soup without writhing in agony for hours afterward. This is beyond pepto, ladies and gentlemen. This is war. My tummy has officially joined the Axis of Evil.
Yes, yes, I know I need to see the doctor. Thing is, I HAVE seen him. I've seen him dozens of times. I've had tubes and cameras stuck up and down various canals and orifices. And at the end of all this agonizing examining, here is what he tells me:
"Noisette, you have stomach problems. You have to stop eating spicy and acidic foods. You have to stop drinking alcohol and coffee. No cheese. You must stick to a diet of bread, rice, chicken broth and vegetables cooked beyond recognition. This is your fate, my dear. Accept it or suffer the consequences."
Needless to say, I haven't accepted it. I'm an eater, see. Not a cook- my talent is consumption. I love to eat. The spicier, the more exotic, the better. My doctor's diagnosis is thus the equivalent of forbidding an umm... artist to paint. Or something. Fuck it, fuck fuck fuck.
Someone offer me a way out of this. A way I can keep eating, and drinking, and enjoying it, without turning my insides out in the process. And yes, I've tried nexium, prilosec, you name it.

And someone tell me how to get caffeine into my system, lest my Superfirm career go the way of the dodo as I lean my head gently on my desk and...