ditto vs snorlax

on the joys of effortless existence

last updated on 21st february

I have a theory: the world is divided into two types of people. Or something like that.

One type is the Ditto. The other is the Snorlax.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Peter, why are you comparing people to Pokémon?"

Well, dear reader, it's because I can.

And also because it's a surprisingly apt analogy.

Walk with me here.

One is a shape-shifting, adaptable, go-with-the-flow creature that can blend into any environment, effortlessly becoming whatever the situation demands.

The other is a 1,000-pound sleep deity whose entire existence revolves around doing nothing until physically forced to move.

I, dear reader, am a Snorlax.

But I know a Ditto when I see one.

How?

Dittos are the social chameleons, the ones who walk into a room and immediately mirror the energy of the people around them. They can thrive in any environment because they just become whatever is necessary.

Job interview? Suddenly the most competent person alive.

Karaoke night? Suddenly they are Mariah Carey.

Someone needs a confident decision-maker? Boom. CEO energy.

Ditto.

It's impressive. It's terrifying. It's also exhausting to even think about.

Dittos are the ones who can switch between friend groups seamlessly, who can adapt to any social situation, who can make small talk with a brick wall and have it respond.

They are the ones who can be whoever they need to be, whenever they need to be.

Then you have the Snorlaxes.

I always believed that they somehow have perfected the fine art of existing exactly as they are, consequences be damned.

Snorlax does not chase. Snorlax does not perform. Snorlax does not wake up early for an overpriced yoga class. Snorlax simply is.

And if the world has a problem with that?

...

Too bad! The only thing that will move a Snorlax is a Poké Flute or sheer, brute force.

(Sheer force is not recommended. You're likely to get squished.)

(May the clown face emoji be with you if you ever try to change a Snorlax's mind.)

It does not care about optimization, efficiency, or "making the most" of anything.

Snorlax has cracked the code. And the code is: do nothing unless absolutely necessary.

I think there's something to be said for both approaches to life.

At first glance, Ditto looks like the winner in every way here. Who wouldn't want the ability to blend in, adapt, and thrive in any scenario?

But, dear reader, consider this:

Ditto is always changing. Ditto is always adapting. Ditto is always becoming something new.

Is there a point where Ditto loses themselves in the process?

Is there a point where Ditto forgets who they are because they've become so good at being what everyone else needs them to be?

It's a question worth pondering.

Snorlax, meanwhile?

Snorlax has never had an identity crisis in its life.

Snorlax has one setting, and it's being Snorlax. Snorlax does not wake up and wonder, "Who am I today?" Snorlax does not have a Notes app full of unsent texts analyzing every social interaction from the past 72 hours. Snorlax does not wake up at 3 AM and remember an embarrassing thing it did five years ago.

Snorlax sleeps, eats, and vibes.

Snorlax is the epitome of unbothered. It just exists. And by doing so, Snorlax forces everyone else to adapt to it.

That's it. That's the whole strategy. And you know what? It works.

Need to get past Snorlax? That's your problem. Snorlax isn't stressed. Snorlax isn't overthinking. Snorlax is napping and will continue to nap until it decides otherwise.

The sheer audacity of Snorlax's logical existence is something to be admired.

But does Snorlax miss out? While everyone else out there is experiencing, Snorlax is… well, probably asleep.

Does Snorlax ever wake up, stretch, and think, "Maybe I should try changing—just a little?"

Probably not. But if it did, I imagine it would take one deep breath, consider the effort required, and immediately go back to sleep.

Ditto bends to the world. Snorlax makes the world bend to it.

So who wins?

The one who can be anything at any time, or the one who refuses to be anything but themselves?

Dear reader, I leave you with this.

Anyway, I'll be on my couch.

Napping.

(And you can bet your Poké Flute that I won't be moving for anything less than a full meal.)

As you might have guessed, this piece is a bit of a departure from my usual style. But there's something real here. As with all good satire, there's both humor and truth in the absurdity.

So, dear reader, I hope you've walked and stuck with me through this whimsical exploration of existence.

I ask you to stick with me a little longer.

We spend so much of our lives oscillating between adaptation and stillness, between wanting to fit in and wanting to stand firm. Between shaping ourselves to the world and hoping, just maybe, the world will shape itself to us.

Fundamentally, the human species constantly grapples with the question of identity. Who are we? What are we? And, most importantly, why are we?

You might have realized that I purposely dichotomized between two extremes in the setup of this piece.

Because that's how we like our narratives, isn't it? Clear-cut, black-and-white, one side or the other. You're either a Ditto or a Snorlax.

We see this kind of artificial polarization everywhere, from politics to social media discourse, from the news cycle to the way we label ourselves and others. The internet thrives on it. Algorithms push the most extreme takes because they get the most engagement. You're either for something or against it. You're either winning at life or failing miserably. You're either hustling or lazy.

The world doesn't like contradictions. It wants to put us in neat little boxes, to define us by absolutes. If we're not careful, we start doing it to ourselves. We start believing that we have to be one thing or the other, that complexity is a flaw rather than a fundamental part of existence.

But life is not a binary.

We are paradoxes, contradictions, walking juxtapositions of effort and ease, of ambition and inertia. We are creatures who can shapeshift when the moment calls for it and creatures who can dig in our heels when something truly matters.

The notion of identity is instrinsically tied to the idea of change. As human beings, we have a remarkable capacity for growth and for evolution. We are, by nature, a species built for adaptation. Our ancestors survived ice ages, droughts, and predator-laden landscapes not because they remained static, but because they learned how to change—how to migrate, innovate, and reshape their understanding of the world. The ability to adapt is in our DNA. Without it, we wouldn't be here.

However, we also have a deep-seated need for stability and for a sense of self that remains constant, a North Star in the ever-shifting sky of existence. We build cultures, belief systems, and personal narratives that help us feel like we are someone. We find comfort in the idea that there are things about us that don't change

So, dear reader, I leave you with this:

If you met a Ditto that had been transforming for so long it forgot what it originally looked like—would it still be a Ditto?

And if a Snorlax finally decided to get up and move... would it still be a Snorlax? Or just a very, very slow Tauros?

At what point does change make us something new? And at what point does stillness make us disappear?

The answer, I think, lies in the balance between adaptation and authenticity, between becoming and being.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a nap to get back to.