I was living in this cul-de-sac. It was in the middle of an intense white artifical landscape that went on forever. The only thing you saw was the three open walls to a few cubicles, the rest was faded like perspective. These cubicals were supposedly apartments but each had a single side open to the hallway. The focus was on my cubical and the hallway beside it, and the small open cubicles on the street/hallway which were stores and sold clothes in front of and across from it. There was a punk teenage boy, he rode a small bike and wore a tie around his head like a bandana which poofed up his blonde hair. He kept attacking the women who tried to walk down the street/hallway beside my open cubicle. Some literally were mortally wounded, I remember one bleeding and her body falling apart in my arms. I was very eager to meet the women, I felt desperate for company, I wanted to make friends. I was also a bit sexually hungry although while in the dream I didn't realize that was my primary drive. I thought I just wanted to make friends. But it wasn't to be, the very pretty women who all walked down my hallway would walk a block if that and he would attack them. They often scurried back to their cubicle if they lived, or scurry back just out of fear alone. The body of the dead ones would disappear of course and I wouldn't think of the problem again until the next woman came trying to creep past. Everyone was so scared, no one felt like socializing because they were so scared. The kid was a punk, it was seen as rude, punk behavior, but the extreme it was at was alarming. He was also only attacking women. Women seemed to be oppressed or at lead held in a outdated regard. A woman, they were all as beautiful as models, tried to sneak by. She had a short wheat bowl haircut, in the back it was long like a long bob, just on a third of the back of her head. It was an interesting haircut, very fashion forward. She huddled in front of my cubical, half inside, hiding behind the clothing racks set out on the street/hallway. She contemplate cutting off the long part of her hair right there, donning men's baggy clothes just to try and pass for a boy and sneak back to her cubicle. She was too scared to even listen to me. I wondered why there wasn't someone protecting us. People knew they could talk to the robots patrolling the hallway but it was almost a fruitless endeavor. The robots spoke and were Sentient but didn't understand human idea of safety. People just didn't call the robot guards over this problem. I called them finally, I was so sick of it. The robot just talked and talked about how it was superior to a human because it didn't need to eat. And robotically put down how humans needed such a base thing. It proffered the food pockets as example. Apparently it was well known you could ask any robot for food and you would receive this, and you could have as much as you wanted. But no one actually did this, they all went hungry instead. I was aware of feeling starved myself. I opened the food pocket. It was perfectly square and when cut in half had mess of mushed food type stuff in it, literally distinguishable little food stuffs, like peering into a frozen hot pocket. It came out cooked from the lip of robots food slot. It came out coated in chocolate and nougat. It was a whole meal in one square pocket. I felt it was crap processed food but I tasted the spices that went into it and they were amazing. I could see how people got addicted to these. My mother was often hanging with me, she was one of the lesser scared ones, but still scared. She didn't know about the food availability from the robot. I tried to tell her many times, finally she was stopped one day and I shoved some chocolate in her mouth. She was very impressed and decided to start eating these things, it dawning on her we could stock up and eat them sparingly throughout the week. I told her it was nasty processed junk food and the really shouldn't be eaten. She was a bit slow to understand my logic, just saw them as food to finally assuage her hunger. There was a book published recently, about three girls, Descartes, Jil, and Sell. These were names and these girls were popular. The books were popular. It's all everyone read. Even me. I liked Sell the best. Her personality was attractive to me. I was a little upset I hadn't wrote the book first. My mother was often over to my cubicle and we would watch the books advertisement on the TV screen. The advert was simple, four screenshots side by side of each character, the three girls and the villain. Often he was portrayed as an attractive androgynous man. Manga pretty. But one advert caught my attention. It was one of those highlight each character ones. Like "Descartes the cute alluring one, Jil the cute funny one, Sell the cute ..." etc. It was basically summed up as Three Girls And The Person Who Controls Them. The word control was synonymous for jail, or enslave. The picture of each girl was played by a mannequin, with a cut out of the characters face put on it. They were all layed out on a fake beach in a fake white sun, on colorful pastel beach chairs. It was obvious they were mannequins, and it was clearly artistic choice not budget which made this advert. The last mannequin was also taped over his face with a cut out, but it was an alien squid face, the face of an Ood from Doctor Who. Later I am in a bathroom, a public restroom, and I am bent over a sink washing my hands and face while reading the news on the Internet screen in the glass, and scrolling through the feed. Another woman walks in and does her business and then washes her hands. As all women are model gorgeous I find her beautiful and intimidating. She ignores me but I feel uncomfortable in the silence and I start talking about the news. Some kid, making rude chauvinistic and plain discriminatory remarks about women had blamed his actions on the fact he was a fan of Marilyn Manson. It might have been the same punk kid who was attacking women outside my cubical. I was upset and scoffing. I was talking about how Marilyn Manson didn't even believe any of that stuff and the kid wasn't even a real fan because he totally misinterpreted Marilyn Manson's message. He was also just using it as an excuse to get away with being an ass. As I defended Marilyn Manson I got heated, really upset and passionate about what I was talking about. The woman never acknowledged me and simply washed her hands and left.