Once, a decade or two ago, I was a hypochondriac. I still am, and all of the diagnoses I've accrued in the past few years have not once actually been what I thought they would be (major depression, not manic; egg and wheat allergies, not lactose intolerance; and where the heck did Asperger's come from and why hadn't I heard of it before now?), but I digress. At any rate, I had the kind of doctor who was quite happy to listen to my self-diagnosis, run tests, confirm it, and then prescribe meds (always DAW; or dispense as written; no generics for his patients). All of those tests involved drawing blood, which is no doubt why I never developed needle phobia -- how could they confirm I was <disease of the week here> if they couldn't draw that blood?
Anyway, at some point my overactive imagination and I wondered if vampires got the leftovers from all of these blood tests, and it entertained me for quite a while afterward. Then after unwisely avoiding doctors like the plague until about when I married callicrates, getting on his insurance, and no longer having an excuse not to see one, I once again started having blood drawn. My vampire daydream has since evolved, and by the time I was diagnosed with diabetes, the vampires were doing the blood testing themselves, complete with visions of sugar-high vampires bouncing off walls after testing my initial HA1C and finally calming down enough to tell the lab techs "Oh yes, that one is diabetic."
To quote (or at least paraphrase) Arther C. Clarke, "Any technology, sufficiently advanced, is indistinguishable from magic." I think I'll just go on believing that the blood drawn today is sitting on a table somewhere. Vampires are gathered around, swishing and sniffing and sipping and frowning and comparing, much like wine tasters; maybe reminiscing how 1971 was a good or bad year for the A+ type, and noticing any irregularities which they can then report to the lab techs.
Then again, maybe it's just the blood loss talking.