Phoebe is 28, a journalist, has OCD and is the queen of lists. On her mirror, on the fridge, all over her hands and…everywhere basically. 

Her favourite lists are: 1) shopping, 2) favourite stationary, 3) least favourite numbers, 4) past jobs ranked in order of wanting to staple her earlobes to the table, 5) the missed opportunities folder in her emails. 

She’s pretty sure keeping them is her healthiest habit, propelling her on towards being the most productive, best version of herself. So, when her lists are spawning lists and lists and lists and becoming an overwhelming listathon, and a pink fluffy monster appears under her duvet and starts spooning her while she sleeps: she’s sure there isn’t a problem.

Phoebe wonders if she needs her space: but the monster is a really good cook, plus they do all her washing for her. So why is she suddenly listing all the ways she might die?