The Self and Why It Stays Fooked!Dr. Rex Cannon loves the big questions. What’s the self? Why’s it such a mess? This book doesn’t dance around. It dives in. The self isn’t a soul floating free. It’s not a neat story. It’s a brain-wired tangle. “Fooked” names it. Not a doctor’s term. A real one. A farmer in Senegal drags his plow. Dust chokes his lungs. His mind hums worry. A coder in Seoul taps keys late. Screen glare burns her eyes. Her thoughts spin dark. “Fooked” nails them both. It’s everywhere. No culture skips it. No race dodges it. Age, gender, faith, place—none duck out. The brain starts it early. Before birth it kicks off. A mother’s stress seeps in. Her meals mold it. Her altitude tweaks it. A baby in flat Senegal grows steady. A baby in mile-high Denver shifts fast. Oxygen dips. Blood cells climb. The womb sets the stage. It’s “fooked” from day one.
Cannon’s hooked on this. Philosophy fires him up. Neuroscience pulls him deep. The self’s raw chaos keeps him going. He mixes old ideas with new scans. Plato’s soul meets brain circuits. The self’s a spark. Strip flesh away. Nerves glow. Energy runs it. A farmer’s hands pulse with it. A coder’s rush buzzes it. We’re light in motion. We’re “fooked” when it flickers. History proves it brutal. Plagues hit. Quarantines lock us in. A farmer loses his market. A coder loses his crew. We talk to ourselves. We scroll alone. Resentment brews. Dr. Cannon calls it Post Plague Syndrome. Hate grows hot. Fights break out. Wars flare up. After 1353 villages burned. After 1665 streets raged. After 1918 borders bled. “Fooked” scales huge. Patterns push it. Plague never quits.
The brain’s the boss. It’s the self. Not a puppet master. Trauma grabs it. A soldier smells gunpowder. His brain jumps to war. He didn’t sign up. Addiction snags it. A coder seeks bread. He lands in Austin with a needle. Reason shuts up. Patterns take the wheel. Logic stabs sharp. Scans show pain in the brain’s front. “Fooked” runs wild. Trauma splits it. A farmer buries floods. A coder hides binges. The brain boxes it off. Full recall would snap it. We’re tough as hell. We’re fragile too. Thinking’s just silent talk. A farmer plans crops in his head. A coder sorts fixes without words. It’s “fooked” when it loops.
Cannon won’t spoon-feed fixes. He shows the map. The self wires in the womb. Stress twists it young. Language locks it tight. It’s not just speech. It’s clucks. It’s shrugs. It’s smells. A farmer calls his herd. A coder pings a chat. Every moment sticks. We lose most. It’s there. “Fooked” slips in soft. A farmer’s kid fears storms. A coder’s kid chases rush. Criminals aren’t born. Life builds them. “Healthy” sounds fake. Experts praise calm. They nod to Mr. Rogers. Sweater fits snug. Song plays sweet. That’s it? A farmer sings that daily? A coder wears those slippers? “Fooked” fits us better. Normal’s a lie.
Change isn’t optional. We can shift. We must shift. It’s work. The brain fights it. Patterns dig deep. A farmer tries new rows. A coder skips a scroll. It’s molecular. Choice cuts cells. Fear scars them. Courage rewires them. “Fooked” stares us down. We face it. We change. Or we don’t. That’s the choice.
