About two years ago, I decided that I’d had enough of the “starving artist” life (constantly two months behind on the rent, credit card bills that rivaled the debt of a Third World nation, et cetera) and resolved to sell out to corporate America and make a huge pile of money. Well, it happened. Thanks to 90-hour work weeks and a cosmic case of “being in the right place at the right time,” I now have more cash than I thought I’d ever make in my life.

The problem? Money has thrown up an impenetrable wall between me and my old artist/writer clique. Several of my buddies, when confronted, admitted that they couldn’t get around their jealousy and hostility towards my new lifestyle, and asked that we go our separate ways. This really pissed me off, and hurt me deeply, but I chalked it up to a valuable life lesson — that they couldn’t have been true friends to begin with, and that I was incredibly naïf about what a major issue money is in our lives. It sucked, but okay.

Except that it’s not. Other friends and acquaintances continue to say things that make me really uncomfortable. (It will never cease to amaze me what the subject of money will do to otherwise sharp, socially adept people.) I get subtle and not-so-subtle requests to borrow money; inquiries about how much exactly I make; nicknames like “the rich friend” or “Moneybags”; “joking” suggestions that I pick up the tab (although when I do, people act shifty or defensive); edicts on how exactly I should spend my money, and what the order of my next purchases should be; and passive-aggressive comments about how I don’t understand what it’s like to struggle to get by. Which of course is ludicrous, since I’ve been there.

I know this sounds hideously clichéd, but I’m still the same person on the inside that I always was. Yes, I now have a swanky apartment and some nice clothes — but I don’t think anyone who witnessed my old “shabby-chic-minus-the-chic” decor or third-rate, knockoff Salvation Army wardrobe can really blame me. Lately, I find myself hanging out more and more with high-income people, simply because they don’t give me garf over my money or insinuate that I should feel apologetic. The whole thing is just gross. How do I get my old friends (whom I vastly prefer) to see that there doesn’t have to be this barrier between us? Or is that just hopelessly idealistic?

Nouveau Riche

Far, far back in the day (approximately ages 4-12) I was very close friends with a schoolmate of mine. Said friend was a guy, but make no mistake that we were very close for those years. I had a small crush on him during those latter years, which I think contributes to this letter.

In seventh grade, he switched schools without telling me. I found out because a few short weeks later I called him to find out why I hadn’t seen him around. Afterwards, I tried a few times to keep the line of connection alive, but to me it seemed as though he hadn’t put any effort whatsoever into it. The last time I called him was the summer before eighth grade.

Now, the point of this. A few months ago, my mother called me up and told me that she had run into my friend at the supermarket. I hadn’t thought of him for a very long time, but lately it seems as though I’ve been missing his company more than I have in a while, and I was considering maybe calling him one more time, just to see how he’s doing. Naturally, I’m hoping that maybe he’d want to begin talking again, though. Am I being completely ridiculous for wanting to call someone who didn’t seem to care in the first place? Or is there really any harm in seeing if maybe we could be friends again?

Frustrated