I used to have this nightmare, see...

...where I'd be alone inside this desiccated hulk of an early-eighteenth-century farmhouse on the property where my grandparents lived when I was young. Once there I could always expect to be visited by some supernormal malevolency the like of which would bring a tear to the eye and a quiver to the bladder of Robert Englund himself. On more than one occasion, I can recall, in the infinite wisdom of the dreaming unconscious, fervently hoping that some leprous abomination would skitter the most revolting of its many appendages from the darkness under the bed and lay hold of my ankles and draw me down into the unflinching embrace of eternity as I slept so that I might be reprieved from my own imagination. Not to say, mind you, that anything I saw and/or suffered in the course of these somnolent sojourns was any more or less than the meat and bread of the day's Hollywood gore machinery. It simply seemed as though my pre-adolescent sensibilities were unequal to the task of coping with anything even tenuously connected with this humble, moldering former residence. Always, in the sober, Joe Friday light of morning the despicable things I recalled--fortunately few--would utterly fail to shrivel to shrieking fantasy death as did my other nocturnal frights. No indeed, even still some of the latent imagery from those dim childhood nightmares, burned into the phosphor screen of an overactive imagination, come back to me on nights darkest and most still. All of which amounts, as they say, to precisely dick, I suppose. And in further supposition, the fact that, lacking any prompting or discussion of the subject from myself, my pseudonymous beloved, upon spending some few minutes in the environs of this particular dream-specter's real-life counterpart, came down with what can only be called a righteous case of the heebie-jeebies must also be discounted as meaningless--indeed totally insubstantial--coincidence.
On a similar note, don't you hate it when you dribble gelatinous melted cheese onto a clean shirt? And even if the shirt is not, according to the strictest empirical definition, precisely clean, as such, at such time as the cheese makes contact with the fabric, well, that's still pretty lousy, right? Unlike less viscous substances, a cheese spill cannot be absorbed by a napkin or blotted away with a towel. Moreover, even if the bulk of the cheese is removed promptly, there always remains behind a troublesome residue of unwholesome dairy substance that attracts not only the attention of those individuals lucky enough not to be so endowed, but ever dust particle within approximately three parsecs of your current location, creating, after a time, a stiff, Bakelite-like layer of gunk on your poor abused garment that, once dried, will not be removed by anything less than a religious rite.

Alright, I realize that the two topics are not in any way related. But then, if you wanted coherence and relevance, you wouldn't be here.