As I am a benevolent soul, I shall save you the bother of googling it and let you know that the above means a fear of lists.
In itself, a list should be nothing to fear. A list is functional, a useful tool for imparting necessary information clearly and swiftly. Lists, to my mind, are not really a form of entertainment being, as they are, inherently dull. Lists are lazy ways to fill space (which is why they are such a popular feature in Sunday supplements and magazines).
My katalogosophobia kicks in whenever I go a-wandering through blogland. It is a list-filled minefield. From the dreaded meme ("8 Tedious Things About Me You Didn't Know and Never Wanted To!"), to the irritating Sugasm, to the Sex Blogger Special - the lovers list.
You know the kind of thing: "And then there's Neville, who is my soulmate and confidante. He likes to be tied to the radiator and pelted with cream buns. So different to dark, brooding Hector, with his artistic temperament. He loves to paint his bollocks black and rest them on my eyelids while I fellate him. He calls this his Panda Passion Performance. Then there is Tim..." And so on for a good few scroll downs.
This type of list is a form of validation, I suppose. A way of saying "Look! Look at all these people who found me attractive enough to fuck me! Am I not desireable? Am I not exciting? Do you not want a slice of this action?"
Which is fair enough. And it works, the comments soothe and reassure. Yet I am still left with my aversion. Maybe my attention threshold is simply too low. Or maybe I just don't have much interest in any list I am not topping.