My Favourite Writing Exercise: 'This Depression Crap'

[One time I had this really great class with this really great professor, and she made us to do this amazing writing exercise where she put on a song and we just started writing whatever the song made us feel, and then she would change the song to something completely different and we could continue writing the same story, just change the next part we wrote based on this new song, and so on and so forth until we had written for four or five different songs.
It was the greatest writing exercise I think I've ever done, and will still do it from time to time when I don't know what to write.
So I did this yesterday. What came out was completely weird, but I am making myself blog at least three times this week, so the weirdness gets posted.
The songs were picked completely at random, in the following order, and I only played a minute and a half of each, just so you can understand why I wrote each bit of weirdness:
I. Wonderland - Taylor Swift
II. Tuning Out... - Bastille
III. This random French song I have by Alan Rickman
IV. Girl On Fire - Alicia Keys
V. Alabama - John Coltrane
VI. Sudden Throw - Olafur Arnalds
Also, for a little more context, I decided before I played the first song to write about a man who was in the hospital because of a failed suicide attempt, and for a living, he writes smut books. I titled it 'This Depression Crap'. That might give you a little more context.]

“Don’t you flash those green eyes at me.”

I smiled up at him. He always knew the right thing to say.

He used to tell me that my eyes changed from blue to green when I cried. Which never made sense to me seeing as how my eyes were grey.

I knew better than to argue with him though.

I looked down as he picked up my hand in his and brought it to his lips, his own eyes shut tight, a small tear escaping down his cheek.

He had told me awhile ago that he wasn’t good at funerals, that he always cried when he saw the people who loved the dead crying. I always wondered if this was true, but I guess I didn’t have to worry about wondering anymore.

“She died far too soon,” Gabby’s husband was saying.

Nope.

I can’t write sappy sad.

I need to just keep to what I know: Smut books written for lonely, middle-aged women who go out for fun and get a new cat.

I’m sitting in a hospital bed, my wrists wrapped tightly even though the bleeding stopped yesterday.

Note to self, next time I try to kill myself this way, remember which way you’re supposed to slit your wrists.

This one male nurse who’s been hanging out in my room a lot told me I should try to write something different.

“Different like what?” I asked, scraping my spoon against the bottom of the pudding cup. Those things just never last long enough.

He sighed dramatically, then started singing in French.

I sat my spoon down and stared at him. I had known him for a few months now; he and I had developed a weird sort of friendship over the past few times I’d been in the hospital for failed suicide attempts.

But I never knew he could sing, let alone sing in French.

When he was done, he stood up dramatically, started walking out of the room, then turned his head back to me and said, “Use that as your inspiration.”

So I got out my computer and started writing. I got as far as some girl named Gabby’s funeral before I forgot what it was I was writing. Forgot, or just didn’t care anymore.

I pushed the button for the nurses, hoping I could sweet talk one of them into sneaking me another pudding.

A nurse I had never seen before with bright red hair came in, staring at her clipboard, not even looking up at me.

She had that kind of hair where you know it’s dyed because no one has hair like that. She had probably cut it herself too, I guessed from the jagged edges and odd angle some of the front layers stuck out.

“Let me guess,” she said, finally looking up. “Another pudding?”

“Are you my soulmate?” I said, winking dramatically. I always tried to be overdramatic and ridiculous when I flirted with the nurses; I knew full well no nurse was going to actually go out with one of their suicidal patients. Never hurts to try, I told myself.

She smiled.

None of the other nurses ever smiled at me.

Maybe that’s all I need, I thought to myself. A little humanity. A smile or two. Maybe that would just make all this depression crap melt.

She pulled out two spoons from her pocket. “The condition to you getting this is that I get to share. And then when I leave, you write me a scene without any sex.”

“Throw one of the spoons away and share just one spoon with me and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

She pulled up the visitor chair as close to the bed as possible, opened the pudding, and took the first bite before handing me the spoon.

“They’re releasing you tonight, you know,” she said offhandedly. “I think they don’t know what to do with you.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” I said, closing my eyes and enjoying every moment of that pudding.

I opened my eyes to see her staring at me with an angry look on her face. 

“You know, I’m probably never going to see you again. So I’m going to go ahead and say this. What do you actually think in your head when you try to kill yourself? They told me this is the sixth time they’ve seen you here. They say when you leave they know they’ll probably see you again because you refuse to get help with your depression. What are you so ashamed of?”