I tried another HQ.  I was not impressed. The listing described this converted tool shed as a "cozy minimalist haven bathed in natural light," which is real estate code for "there are no blinds and the neighbor’s floodlight points directly at your face."

Let’s talk about the bedding. The host proudly boasted "hotel-grade linens," which must refer to a state penitentiary or an 18th-century workhouse. I estimate the thread count was hovering somewhere between three and a chain-link fence. Tossing and turning felt less like falling asleep and more like being aggressively dry-buffed with 60-grit sandpaper. By 3:00 AM, my partner and I were completely exfoliated down to the dermis, desperately clinging to a solitary polyester throw pillow that crackled with enough static electricity to power a medium-sized blender.

Hydration was an entirely separate ordeal. The host assured us the well water had "mineral character." In reality, turning on the kitchen tap delivered the full, unapologetic bouquet of an overcrowded YMCA wading pool in mid-July. Brushing my teeth felt like waterboarding myself through a municipal chlorination valve. My gums were tingling, my eyes were watering, and my morning coffee tasted distinctly like lane four of an Olympic relay. On the bright side, every single microbe in my digestive tract has been thoroughly sanitized out of existence.

Naturally, the stay concluded with the signature Matty hospitality: paying a $385 cleaning fee while being required to scrub the baseboards, clean the gutters, re-tile the backsplash, and have the keys returned to the lockbox by 7:15 AM sharp.

Book here if you hate your skin, miss high school swim team, and love paying someone else to let you do their domestic chores.

But I did walk away with $37,500.  So I got that going for me.  Which is nice.